


Kitchen Consequential

by withthepilot



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Minor Character Death, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-31
Updated: 2010-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-13 16:04:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 65,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/139119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All paths lead to the kitchen for the staff members of Enterprise, the newest critical darling on the New York restaurant scene. It's here that they come together as a team and find out just where they belong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kitchen Consequential

**Author's Note:**

> AU set in New York City, 2009, with flashbacks to five years prior. Many references to the ST: XI canon. Eventual slash, het, minor character deaths. Contains a total of 18 parts.
> 
> What originally started as a "omg, let's put them all in a restaurant!" fic turned into a rather long ode to family: the ones we're born with, the ones we leave behind, and the ones we create along the way. Also, the story is somewhat of a love letter to New York City, my beloved hometown. In a way, the fic is more about those two themes than the restaurant setting—which is good, because I know next to nothing about cooking. Therefore, please take any and all restaurant/culinary school descriptions with a grain of salt.
> 
> Thanks to starsandgraces for being a fantastic beta, cheerleading for me throughout the entire process, and coining the clever interim title of "RestAUrant."

I.

It's not so much an interview as it is an obstacle course. And it's immediately off to a bad start because Pavel's running late and racing down the streets of Manhattan's Hell's Kitchen neighborhood in an attempt to make it before the clock strikes 2:01. The front doors of Enterprise, New York's hottest and chicest five-star restaurant, are impressively large, made of glass and wiped down so spotlessly that Pavel almost smacks right into them. He clutches his messenger bag and walks to the reception area, where a pale, somewhat robotic man greets him. Pavel almost startles when the man lifts his head; he's never seen such strange eyebrows before.

"May I help you, sir?" the man says. He's monotone but offhandedly regal. Pavel can't detect an outright foreign accent, but something about his inflection doesn't sound quite American. He should know; he's been paying close attention to the speech patterns of Americans for years, having had to learn their language from scratch.

" _Da_ —yes. I have an appointment with Mr. Christopher Pike and, ah..." He looks at his planner, mentally cursing himself for blanking on the executive chef's name. "Chef James T. Kirk."

"Mr. Chekov, I presume. I'm happy to escort you to the main office."

The man nods his head slowly and steps out from behind the desk. He's impeccably dressed in a charcoal-gray suit and eggplant-colored silk tie. The eyebrows are still peculiar, though. Not to mention the odd bowl-cut hairdo. He gestures for Pavel to follow him and Pavel keeps his hands on the strap of his bag, falling into step behind him. They avoid the interior dining room, making their way through the back hallway, which is as pristine as the front doors that nearly broke his nose.

"Please excuse the mess," the man says. Pavel lifts his brows in surprise, looking around at the immaculate surroundings. He decides not to say anything for fear of sounding like an idiot.

When they get to the office, there's an older gentleman leaning back in a chair, his feet propped up on the wooden, possibly antique table as he flicks through a magazine. Like the other man, he's sharply dressed, but obviously much more casual.

"Sir, Mr. Chekov is here to see you," Pavel hears. Out of nerves, he steps forward and extends a hand to the man behind the table.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kirk," he says. The gentleman laughs, creases forming at the corners of his warm eyes, and he takes Pavel's hand in a firm shake.

"I would be Mr. Pike, actually. Mr. Kirk is tardy today, as usual."

"Oh, I am sorry, sir." Pavel returns the shake and feels his face go hot, wondering why he even assumed this was Kirk. And what a stupid mistake; Pike is quite famous in culinary circles and it isn't as if Pavel hasn't seen the man's photo in magazines before. "Please forgive me. I...I did not—"

"Forget about it, son." Pike waves a hand and nods to the man in the gray suit who isn't smiling at the exchange but still somehow manages to look amused. "Thank you, Mr. Spock," Pike says, which prompts the strange fellow—Mr. Spock, presumably—to bow his head and take his leave. Pavel watches him go and wonders if he isn't of Asian descent. He takes a seat across from Pike when he's told to, resting his bag on his lap.

"So, Mr. Chekov," Pike starts. He drops his feet to the floor and sits upright, looking over a paper scrawled with handwritten notes. "Pavel, is it?"

"Pavel Andreievich Chekov, yes." He nods quickly and has to remind himself not to tap his fingers on his bag, a nervous habit. "I am very grateful to you for this meeting."

"Well, you come highly recommended by the higher-ups at Starfleet Culinary Academy, with whom I'm firmly acquainted. Best in your class, I'm told. We don't usually hire straight out of the academy, but—"

Just then, a man rushes into the room, his chest heaving. Pavel startles and looks up at him, taking in expressive blue eyes and a full, cherubic mouth, his dirty blond hair thick and tousled. Unlike the other men, he's dressed like a teenager, sporting an over washed, faded T-shirt, frayed blue jeans and tattered sneakers. Pavel stares in confusion; surely this man can't be older than 25, 26 years? He _couldn't_ be—

"Sorry I'm late," he says, sucking in a breath. He smiles disarmingly and pats Pavel on the shoulder, then offers him his hand. "Hey, buddy. Jim Kirk." Pavel blinks in bewilderment and shakes the man's hand. He's about to introduce himself when Pike speaks up again.

"Jim, this is Pavel Andreievich Chekov. Which you would have known by now, if you could ever get your lazy ass to a meeting on time."

"Chekov?" Kirk repeats, ignoring the skewering from Pike. He sits down in the remaining empty chair and crosses his legs, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. "Like the playwright?"

"Yes, but is spelled different," he replies, a bit too timidly for his own liking. He wants to hide under Pike's table when Kirk grins at him, likely because of his accent.

"Wow, that's some accent you got there, Chekov. Checkers." He looks between Pavel and Pike and nods thoughtfully. "I like 'Checkers.' What do you guys think?"

"Please excuse Mr. Kirk's boyish charm, Mr. Chekov," Pike says, rolling his eyes. Pavel smiles a bit at that, though his head is swimming. He still can't work out how someone as painfully young as James T. Kirk has already managed to become executive chef of the best restaurant in all of New York City. It seems impossible, even to a nineteen-year-old prodigy who's already graduated from culinary school at the top of his class.

"I prefer Chekov, but thank you for the nickname, Mr. Kirk," he says, hoping he's doing a good job of keeping up with the repartee. Pavel exhales when the remark earns him a big smile from Kirk, and sets about digging into his bag for his paperwork. He pulls out a file folder and starts spreading documents over the table. "I have brought my CV and references and—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Kirk holds up his hands and pushes a leaf of paper away from him as if it's poisonous. "We're not interested in that."

"Maybe you're not, but I am," Pike says. He pulls the papers closer and looks them over, nodding with a serious expression. Beside him, Kirk tilts his head back and pretends to snore. Pike doesn't lift his eyes from the pages before him. "Are we boring you, Jim? Do you need to run to the kitchen and set fire to a salmon fillet?"

"Who _cares_ about all this stuff? Starfleet Culinary Academy, top honors, teacher's pet, blah blah blah."

Kirk flaps his hand in a chatterbox gesture and Pavel squirms in his seat, disliking the idea of all his hard work being brushed off. If he _was_ a teacher's pet, it was only due to his thirst for learning and unparalleled ability; he would think the most renowned chef in New York would care about qualifications, at least a little. He doesn't say as much, though, just squirms some more.

"Maybe _I_ care?" Pike says, though he doesn't sound very annoyed. He lifts his eyes and nods to Pavel, looking vaguely impressed. "It seems as though Mr. Chekov was a superstar back at Starfleet. He specialized in Eastern-European and Mediterranean cuisines, yet 'displayed a skillful range.' That doesn't hold any cache for you, Jim?"

"All I care about is whether or not the kid can cook." Kirk pins him with that clear blue gaze and cocks his head. "Can you cook, Checkers?"

"Yes, of course," Pavel says, feeling more indignant by the second.

"Well, I'm _starving_." Kirk pats his stomach and leans back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "So, why don't you head back to the kitchen and make us...oh, how 'bout a cassoulet. You in the mood for cassoulet, Pike?"

Pike smirks and shakes his head, keeping his gaze down. "I said his specialty is Mediterranean, Jim."

"Well, I'm in the mood for some fine, French bean lovin' today." He smacks his hand on the table and Pavel gapes slightly at him, which Kirk takes as an invitation to continue. He gestures in the direction of the kitchen and nods. "You'll find everything you need back there. So, hop to it, kid."

Pavel blinks, searching for some kind of reply. After a few seconds, he simply stands up and sheds his coat and bag, leaving them behind and rolling up his sleeves as he heads to the kitchen. When he's gone, Pike picks up his magazine again and exhales heavily.

"That's gonna take forever, Jim."

"I can amuse myself." Kirk moves to prop his feet on the table and Pike smacks his leg with the magazine. He shrugs and puts them down again, playing with his fingers.

Forty-five minutes later, Pavel pulls the earthenware pots from the massive oven and wipes the sweat from his brow. The kitchen is magnificent, unlike any he's seen before, with multiple accoutrements that show Pike is a man who knows how to keep his chefs happy. Pavel knows that, despite the dismissive treatment from Chef Kirk, he'd be extremely lucky to land a position here. He places his dirty pots and pans into the large basin sink and then returns to the cassoulets, stirring to test their thickness, taking a small spoonful to sample. He blows on the hot beans before he tastes, then twists his mouth slightly, murmuring to himself.

"You are the most important cassoulets of my career," he says.

Just then, a man pops his head into the doorway of the next room, looking confused. "You talkin' to me, laddie?" he asks, eyebrows screwed up. The unexpected voice nearly makes Pavel jump out of his skin and he stammers out his response.

"Ahh...n-no! Sorry."

The man looks him over and nods, shrugging. "Smells brilliant," he says. "Save some for me." Then he quickly disappears again. Pavel takes a deep breath and smoothes his apron down, trying to compose himself.

When he reenters Pike's office, carrying the two pots in oven mitt-clad hands, he notes that Kirk appears to be toying with his cuticles. He thinks of the review he read in the _New Yorker_ , the one that waxed poetic about Kirk's raspberry and lemon curd ricotta torte, and tries not to boggle visibly. Both men look up with interested smiles and Pavel presents them each with a small pot, as well as a spoon and napkin. Pike folds the napkin over his lap and Kirk tucks his into the collar of his T-shirt. He looks like a cartoon character, ready to dig into a five-course meal.

"Be careful, please, is very hot," Pavel says, taking off the mitts and clasping his hands behind his back.

Pike nods his thanks and immediately dips into the cassoulet. Pavel chooses to watch Kirk as he eats, more interested in his reaction, given his earlier apathy. He looks on with rapt fascination as Kirk takes time to inhale the scent of the dish and look over the presentation and texture, prodding the surface with his spoon. He takes a bite then, and chews with deliberate slowness, nodding to himself as he assesses the flavors. After that, however, he goes all out, eating the rest with a bowed head, as if someone will take it away from him. Kirk _likes_ it; that much is obvious. Pavel's fingers twitch behind his back and he tries not to smile—if he lets his mouth muscles get away from him, he knows he'll be grinning like a loon.

He ends up standing there for at least five minutes, until Kirk drops his spoon into the emptied pot with a clatter and licks his lips. Pavel nearly coughs when he realizes he's been holding his breath, waiting for Kirk's assessment, whatever it may be.

"That was awesome, Checkers," Kirk finally says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and points a finger at Pavel definitively. "You're hired."

"Excuse me, _I'm_ the one who decides that," Pike interjects. He throws Kirk an annoyed glance and then turns back to Pavel, hesitating before quirking a smile. "He's right; you're hired."

"I..." Pavel lets out a rush of air and fights the urge to sink to his knees and praise god. He also has to stop himself from running over and giving Pike and Kirk sloppy kisses on their cheeks. He knows he should be incredulous over how casual the two men are acting about the entire thing, but he can think about that later. "I am...I do not know what to say. This is a dream come to life," he enthuses, laughing faintly.

"That's what you say now, until Bones has a go at you." Kirk grins and shrugs, taking off the napkin. Pavel has no idea what he's talking about, but Kirk doesn't take the time to explain. "You earned it, kid. That was the best damn cassoulet I've ever had. And you don't even specialize in French."

"The subtle examination techniques of James T. Kirk," Pike murmurs, smiling. He nods to Pavel. "You'll start tomorrow night. We need the extra hands right away. You'll be Chef Uhura's _commis_." Kirk nods and grins, almost wolfishly.

"Uhura could use some extra hands, all right. _My_ hands, on her hot body."

Pike groans and rolls his eyes for what seems like the tenth time since Pavel arrived. "Jim, don't you have some prep to do?"

"Yep." Kirk jumps to his feet and comes around the table, smacking Pavel's arm, a little too hard. He does his best not to wince. "Thanks for the grub, Checkers. Get here at three; I'll introduce you to everyone and show you the rounds."

Kirk takes his leave then, whistling as he exits the room, and Pavel watches him go, turning back to a friendly-as-ever Pike. "Ah...excuse me for asking, Mr. Pike. But Chef Kirk is quite young, is he not? I have never heard of such a young executive chef."

"Yeah, he's young. But he'll amaze you. He amazes everyone. And, problem is, the cocky bastard knows it." He gives Pavel a half-smile and rises from his chair. "It's a good story, how I met Jim. Maybe I'll tell you one day. In the mean time, have a seat; I've got some paperwork to give you before you go."

Pike disappears to another room and Pavel sits heavily, gazing at the two empty cassoulet pots before him. He nearly trembles as he finally gets a moment to reflect on what just happened, until his reverie is interrupted by that loud and strongly accented voice again.

"Any left?" the man says, once again making his presence known just by popping his head into the doorway. When he spots the empty pots, his figure appears in full and he stomps a foot in frustration. "Bugger it all! I'm bloody famished!" The man pouts and shoots a warning glare in Pavel's direction, wagging his finger. "You owe me another one of those, lad."

Pavel opens his mouth to respond but the Scotsman is already gone.

 

II.

Eleven o'clock at night and Pike was lost. In Iowa, of all places. He made another U-turn, cringing at the squeak and grind of the rusty car he'd rented for the trip, all for some terrible culinary convention that hadn't even been worth his while, not to mention the airfare. Sure, the academy was paying for the majority of his expenses, but it still didn't seem worth the effort. His hotel room was cramped and no one ever seemed to be around at the front desk when he needed something; Pike hated places that claimed to offer "fine accommodations" and then failed to be anything like accommodating.

He stepped on the gas and made the first right that came up. He couldn't see for shit, as the road only seemed to have one light for every other mile marker. Might as well keep driving, he figured; maybe if he kept going, he'd eventually end up back in New York, back in civilization as he knew it.

There was a light in the distance and Pike steered toward it, blinking past the dashboard at the rusted-out tin can of a diner as it came into view. The idea of food had his stomach rumbling and he parked quickly in the lot, deserted save for a single motorcycle chained to a post by the side of the building. Pike turned off the engine and made his way up the diner's wobbly wooden stairs. The door opened with the jingle of an old-fashioned chime above it. The place was about the length and width of a school bus at best, and there wasn't a soul in sight—not in any of the booths or behind the counter.

"Hello?" he called, hands on his hips as he peered around. He could smell something cooking in the kitchen. Smelled pretty damn good, actually. "You open?"

"Hell, no," a voice shouted back, and then a young man emerged from the kitchen, smacking on a piece of gum. His white T-shirt was stained with grease, as was the ratty apron tied around his waist; other than that, there was no hairnet or any other article of clothing donned for the sake of cleanliness. He looked Pike up and down, lifting his brow. "Sorry, man. We close at ten."

"Then what's that smell?" Pike asked, motioning to the kitchen.

"My dinner." The boy wiped his hands on his apron and blew a bright pink bubble. He looked out the window and saw Pike's car, the only one in the lot. "You hungry?"

"Starved." Pike moved to the counter and took a seat on one of the torn, wobbly stools, pulling out his wallet. He placed a fifty on the counter and slid it in the boy's direction. "Whatever you're making, I'll have a plate," he said. He almost smiled when the guy picked up the bill with a low whistle and held it up to the light. After he determined the money was real, he quickly pocketed it.

"Where're you from?" he asked, fixing Pike with a wary glance.

"New York."

"Oh."

Pike blinked as a momentary look of revulsion swept over the kid's face, but then he nodded and said nothing more about it. He reached into a small fridge and pulled out a beer, opening it with a cool hiss sound and placing it before Pike.

"It'll just be a minute," he said. Then he disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Pike to wonder what it was about the boy that was so familiar.

Turned out, it was the eyes that did it; those were George Kirk's eyes. Pike pulled out his iPhone while he waited for his meal and with a few points and clicks, brought up some information on one of New York's contemporary culinary heroes—sadly, now deceased. George Kirk had been the executive chef of the Kelvin, one of downtown Manhattan's shining stars in the early '80s, just as the area was coming into its own. A rebel behind a stove, Kirk had brought the place to dizzying heights just as the downtown arts scene started booming, only to perish in a tragic fire that consumed the restaurant. He'd saved the majority of the staff and kitchen crew before getting caught in the flaming wreckage, going down with the ship, as it were; nothing less than a tragic end to a brilliant career, snuffed out before it truly began. The police had suspected arson but no one was ever caught and the Kelvin never reopened its doors.

Pike remembered George Kirk. And when the plate of duck confit and roasted sage potatoes was set before him on the counter, he looked up at what appeared to be the man's spitting image.

"You make yourself duck confit for dinner," he drawled, more of an observation than a question. The kid arched his brow.

"I deserve something nice for slinging hash all day, don't I?"

Pike gave him a dubious look, holding up his canned beverage. "With beer?"

"I like beer."

He tucked a napkin under his chin and bent over the counter to eat, and Pike had no other recourse but to follow his lead.

Pike couldn't remember the name of George Kirk's son until the kid introduced himself between bites, and then it all clicked into place. Jim, or more formally, James Tiberius Kirk, had been born on the day of the Kelvin inferno; his mother escaped the blaze herself by conveniently going into labor just as the evacuation started. Pike remembered the story vividly now, just as Winona had told the rest of her then-fellow instructors at Starfleet Culinary Academy, and just as he'd read in his own research: born in the backseat of a yellow cab, Jim came into the world just as the Kelvin collapsed into a fiery pile of rubble. Winona never really got over the loss of her husband; she eventually quit her position at the Academy, claiming she was taking Jim out of the city, back home to her family—home being somewhere in East Bumfuck, Iowa.

"How's Winona then?" Pike asked, as he finished the last of his potatoes. Jim looked at him, warily again, as if he didn't know what to make of this strange city slicker.

"And you know my mom... _how_?"

"She was an instructor of mine at Starfleet Culinary Academy, long time ago. The place has never been quite the same without her."

"You're kidding me, man." Jim laughed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his rolled-up shirt sleeve, placing one between his lips and lighting it. "That's beautiful. You just _happen_ to be from New York and you just happen to know my mom and tonight, you just _happened_ to roll up on my little shithouse of a diner."

"I'm in town for a conference. Until about ten minutes ago, I thought the whole thing was a complete waste of time." Pike leaned back in his chair, thoughtfully watching Jim smoke, even though the kid wouldn't meet his eyes. It made him want to push harder. "You know, your dad was—"

"Ugh. My dad?" Jim tilted his head back and laughed ruefully. "Come on, why're you even _talking_ to me, man?"

"Because I see some of your dad in you. I _studied_ your dad's techniques." Pike squinted as Jim blew smoke in his direction but didn't avert his eyes. "Because I'm going to be fantasizing about that fucking duck confit for _months_."

Jim shook his head and flicked ashes into a nearby plastic tray. "Just 'cause I make sloppy joes and fried eggs all day doesn't mean I'm some dumb redneck who doesn't know how to cook. I _know_ how to cook."

"Well, that's what I'm saying. You're raw talent, kid. You don't belong out here, serving truckers and meth heads in the middle of nowhere."

"That's my esteemed clientele you're ragging on, man," Jim said. Pike quirked a smile, undeterred by the snide commentary.

"If you came to New York, we could get you some formal training, perfect your techniques, and in four years, you could be working as a chef in one of the best restaurants in the city. Maybe even my restaurant."

"Bullshit." Then, a small pause. "What's it called?"

"It's not open yet, still in the works. Got a few years of planning to go, yet. But I'm not bullshitting you, Jim." Pike exhaled, leaning further across the counter, closer to Jim's personal space. The kid finally looked up at him, then, and he took it as a good sign. "Enroll at Starfleet. You're a Kirk; cooking's in your blood. You were meant for more than this rickety tuna can."

Jim didn't answer, just stood there for a few moments and then stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, beginning to collect the dirty plates. Pike frowned to himself and pulled an old receipt from his jacket pocket, scribbling the name of his hotel on the back and holding it out to Jim.

"Think about it." He cocked his head. "Your dad's a legend where I'm from, and it's got nothing to do with the fact that his restaurant burned down. I dare you to do better."

"We done here?" Jim interjected, his gaze officially devoid of interest. Pike hesitated and then nodded.

"I'm done."

Jim tipped his chin up, a smarmy little gesture, as he took the paper and shoved it into his pocket, the same one that held the fifty-dollar bill from earlier. "Have a good one, man," he said, his tone fairly dismissive as he turned and carried the empty plates back into the kitchen. Pike could tell he'd hit a nerve. He sighed and stood from the squeaky stool, heading back to his car. The kid was a piece of work but obviously no idiot; maybe he'd think about it and actually make the right call. And if all else failed, he figured, he got a one-hundred dollar plate of duck confit for a mere fifty bucks; in Pike's world, that alone was worth the trip.

He was already in the driver's seat when he realized he'd never asked Jim for directions back to his hotel. He ended up finding a gas station down the road, where some grease monkey helped him out, in exchange for a fiver.

The next morning, Pike awoke at the correct hour to make his flight, despite the lack of a wake-up call that he'd specifically requested the night before. Miraculously, he managed to find someone at the lobby's front desk to help him check out; he'd never been happier to leave a place behind. He signed on the dotted line, picked up his suitcase and put on his sunglasses, heading outside. As soon as he handed his car keys to the hotel valet, all noise in the immediate area was overpowered by the loud roar of a motorcycle pulling up in front of him. Pike looked up and appraised the smug grin of one James T. Kirk.

"Four years?" he asked, hopping off his bike. "I'll do it in three."

"That would require night classes," Pike replied, smirking.

"Well, what else do I have to do? Not like I'll have any friends. Though I hear the women in New York are hot." Jim nodded to the valet as he left to fetch Pike's rental car, then lit up a cigarette. Pike was willing to bet that Jim wouldn't exactly like that new restaurant and bar anti-smoking bill they'd passed the year before in New York. The kid kept on talking, much chattier than he'd been the night before. "We're flying first class, right? Since you're a classy guy and all. And, oh, hey—can you pay to have my bike shipped up there? I'm afraid of the subway; the map looks all fucked up and scary."

Pike pursed his lips and tried to suppress a resigned smile as he saw his car coming around. He walked to the driver's side when it came to a stop.

"Just follow the car for now, okay?"

"You got it, Cap'n," Jim said, saluting Pike and gesturing to the valet. "And give that nice young man one of those big bills you're packing."

Pike sighed and put back the dollar he'd retrieved from his wallet, pulling out a five for the valet instead. Obviously pleased with himself, Jim hopped back on his bike and revved the engine loudly.

Three years later, the kid made good on his promise, and as Enterprise was officially close to opening its pristine doors, Pike did as well; at least, he did after he got himself another plate of that divine duck confit. After three long years spent recalling its memory, Jim's dish was still just as good—or possibly better—than Pike remembered it.

 

III.

Pavel takes the train back into Queens, absolutely thrumming with excitement. He daydreams throughout the entire ride of bursting through the front door of his mother's hair salon and scooping her into his arms for a big hug. He remains controlled, however, getting off at his stop in Rego Park and walking briskly past various Russian immigrant storefronts to Utopia, greeted as usual by its pink, teal and white awning with the purple lettering. When he walks in, his mother is chattering away with her coworkers and friends, wielding her trusty curling iron as she gives someone a Medusa-like mane. When he's spotted, the conversation comes to an abrupt halt. His mother looks up, gesturing with the iron and speaking to him in Russian.

"Well, Pasha? How did it go?"

"Ah, Mama..." he starts, trying to look dejected as he makes his way down the stairs of the entrance. He knows he can't keep it up for long, though; he's far too thrilled. He shakes his head and laughs brightly, lifting his arms. "The job is mine!"

The salon nearly caves in on itself with shrieks of excitement, and Pavel's mother drops her curling iron right on the tiled floor, rushing over to embrace him tightly. She kisses both his cheeks and pets his curls, the ones that naturally spring to life after every morning shower without any special hair products or heating supplies.

"Oh, Pasha, I am so proud of you! You hear that, everyone?" She turns to the rest of the room and lifts her arms, as if she's gunning for applause. "My brilliant Pavel is going to be a chef at Enterprise! The best restaurant in all of New York! What more could a mother ask for than that, I tell you!"

Pavel blushes furiously as he endures what seems to be a factory line of Russian salon girls, all waiting to kiss his cheek and ruffle his hair. He feels much more disheveled when they're all through with him than he was when he first entered. As soon as the kisses are done, the flurry of inane questions begins.

"Pavel, can you get me a reservation at Enterprise for Valentine's Day?"

"Pavel, what is the toilet paper like in the restroom? Is it soft like dove feathers?"

"Pavel, do you think that handsome chef—Kirk, is it?—is single? I read about him in _New York_ magazine and he's just dreamy!"

"I...I don't know," Pavel says, shaking his head in bewilderment. He sits in one of the salon chairs, eyes wide as he peers up at the shampoo girls, manicurists, and other hairstylists, all crowded around them. Eventually, his mother shoos them all away, brandishing the broom she uses to clean up the piles of hair on the floor. Sabina, the youngest shampoo girl, screams in terror and runs away—she's somehow deathly afraid of discarded hair touching her skin, even though she touches the hair on people's heads every day. Pavel can't help but giggle into his fist.

"Harpies! Leave him alone; he hasn't even begun the job yet!" His mother leans down and kisses his forehead, whispering to him. "Pasha, I'm very, very proud of you. You're my greatest gift. You know this, yes?"

"Yes, Mama," he answers dutifully. He beams up at her, pleased to have her warmth and approval. He couldn't admit it to anyone, but it means more to him than any friendly nickname from any infamous executive chef.

"Ah, Marta, you'll ruin the boy," his father says, coming out from the back room. He's got a rolled-up newspaper tucked under his arm and Pavel has to assume he was using the bathroom this whole time. He rolls his eyes fondly and wrinkles his nose when Andrei pats his head, which makes his father laugh and pat his shoulder as well. "What's all the fuss about?"

"Pavel did very well at his interview today and he's going to be a chef at that famous Enterprise restaurant!" Marta exclaims.

"No kidding?" Andrei leans down to plant one last kiss on Pavel's cheek, nodding firmly. "You showed those restaurant snobs what you could do, didn't you? Good for you."

"Papa, I _am_ one of those restaurant snobs now," Pavel replies, grinning.

"Never! Bite your tongue. You're the saint of the kitchen." Andrei goes to the front desk and sits down with a heavy sigh, picking up a pencil and the same yellow legal pad with which he always does his bookkeeping. "Marta, where is my calculator?" he asks, already busy with his work again.

"Wherever you left it last, idiot. How would I know?"

Marta rolls her eyes and starts sweeping the fallen hair along the floor, ignoring Andrei's answering grunt. Pavel sighs and pulls out his phone to text his friends to tell them the good news, maybe gather everyone together for some kind of celebration after dinner. None of them are old enough to drink, but that never stops them from getting drunk. Pavel smiles at each buzz of his phone, answering texts as quickly as he receives them, his thumbs flying over the keypad. He glances up occasionally at the Russian music videos on the flat-screen TV that his mother insisted they buy to attract younger customers. The music is loud and terrible, really obnoxious stuff, but his friends always seem to enjoy the dancing girls in their revealing clothes. Pavel prefers his little iPod, filled with classical music and hip-hop. There's nothing he loves more in the world than cooking while listening to hip-hop, though no one really knows that.

Pavel helps his parents close down the shop and then heads upstairs with them for dinner. Andrei jokes that the "big, fancy chef" should be cooking for _them_ now, but Marta quiets him with a smack to his shoulder. Pavel finds he's glad for the respite; cooking those cassoulets earlier was the most stressful kitchen experience he's had in ages, even worse than his final exams at the Academy. He tells his parents all about the interview over dinner, from Pike's unexpectedly friendly manner to Kirk's early dismissal, followed by a glimmer of respect. He mentions the strange Scotsman who never properly introduced himself and the man with the odd haircut—Mr. Spock, who he suspects is the restaurant's maitre d', with his sharp suit and mild-mannered speech.

Marta listens to every detail with rapt attention, asking lots of questions and nudging him for more. Andrei just eats slowly and smiles; Pavel's not exactly sure if his father is interested in all this stuff, but he does seem to be proud, and that's good enough for him.

After dinner, he heads to Misha's apartment, where his friends have all agreed to gather in celebration. Misha's a few years older and always manages to get alcohol for special occasions, which seem to take place most every night. Everyone mainly wants to know if there are any hot girls working at Enterprise; Pavel explains more than once that he only met with the men in charge and doesn't really know; as if any five-star chefs would be interested in his immature, under aged friends, anyway. After lots of beer and wine, video games and _Iron Chef_ jokes at his expense, Pavel finds himself stumbling down Queens Boulevard in the very early hours of the morning and making the journey back home, which is always difficult after an evening at Misha's.

Pavel's head is filled with thoughts of how his first day working at Enterprise will be and all the possibilities for success or disaster at every turn. He has no idea how Kirk will treat him, though he hopes it will be with some respect, and he can only imagine what Chef Uhura will be like, the one with whom he's meant to work. Also, he's slightly worried about crossing paths with that grumpy Scotsman again, who might still hound him for his own pot of cassoulet. After today, Pavel will be pleased if he doesn't have to make another cassoulet for a long, long time.

He's so wrapped up in his mental trance that he's barely paying attention to where he's walking. He suddenly bumps shoulders with another man and stumbles, barely keeping himself from falling backwards. "Oh, I am sorry, so—"

"Oh, hey...totally my fault."

Pavel looks up at the man, not anyone he's seen in this neighborhood before. He's slender and Asian and looks more than a bit out of his element as he clutches a messenger bag that reminds Pavel of his own. He's wearing a white dress shirt and an undone bowtie hangs from his collar, as if he's just gotten off a late-night work shift. His hair is mussed in a rather cute way.

It's only after a few moments of staring that Pavel realizes the man has a hand on his shoulder, steadying him. It's probably quite obvious that he's intoxicated. He nods gratefully and hopes he isn't blushing.

"It is not your fault," Pavel says. "I was being clumsy."

"Well, I wasn't watching where I was going, so let's say it's both of our faults." He smiles as he takes his hand back, the skin near the corners of his eyes creasing just slightly. "Actually, I don't even know where I'm going to begin with. I took the wrong train home from work and now I'm lost."

"Wrong train?" Pavel repeats. He bites the inside of his cheek when he realizes he must sound like an idiotic parrot. "Ah...where do you need to go?"

"Well, I live in Astoria. And I usually take the 7 train home from my job, but they had some sort of track emergency, so I walked uptown to catch the N but I got on the R instead and I ended up falling asleep and didn't even realize I was on the _completely_ wrong train until I got to the stop around here. And then I was so disoriented that I just got off and went above ground. Fucking MTA." He exhales, having said all of that in one breath, and Pavel squints, trying to catch up with what he's saying. "Maybe I should just get a cab. Shouldn't really be spending the money, but..."

"Wait, you live in Astoria?" Pavel asks, finally making sense of it all. He smiles and shakes his head. "No need to take a cab; it is easy, really. You get back on the R or V train, headed to Manhattan. And then you take it to Steinway Street and walk. Or take a shorter cab ride."

"Really? Hey, awesome. The R or V to Steinway...great, thanks." The man grins, bright and wide, and to Pavel, it's like the sun. "You know, I've lived here for over two years now, and I _still_ can't figure out the damn trains, most of the time."

"It can be a complicated city, it's true. I used to often mistake Queens Plaza for Queens Center." Pavel laughs when the other man does, and a part of him wonders how he's even managing to banter with someone he finds so insanely attractive. It has to be the alcohol.

"Well...listen, thanks again," he says. "You saved me twenty bucks." He takes a step back and lifts a hand to wave goodbye. "See you around?"

"Yes, sure," Pavel says, even though he won't, because just like that, the handsome man from Astoria is gone, on his way back to the subway entrance, and he never even got his name. He supposes his day has been more excellent than most even without this last item; successfully flirting with a stranger would have gone above and beyond all expectations, and he doesn't want to be greedy.

Still, when Pavel goes to bed that night, he calms his nerves about what the next day at Enterprise will bring by closing his eyes and recalling the appearance of the attractive man on the street: the wrinkled seams of his shirt; the gentle curve of his jaw; the reflection of the boulevard's streetlamps in his molten brown eyes as he gazed in every direction, as if there were a special place—a special person—he was meant to find.

 

IV.

When Jim gets to the restaurant, he stops whistling the moment he sees the Russian kid sitting in the reception area, chatting with Spock. They seem to be in the midst of a _fascinating_ conversation, Spock's favorite word to describe most everything, and he watches the kid's animated expression with an amused smirk. Spock notices him pretty quickly, though, and the conversation comes to an abrupt halt.

"Good afternoon, Jim," Spock says, bowing his head, as pleasant as ever.

"Hello, Chef Kirk!" Chekov rises to his feet with an eager smile and clutches his bag to his chest as if someone might steal it. Jim has to laugh at that, saluting him.

"At ease, Checkers." He checks his watch and is surprised to find he actually isn't late today: three o'clock, just as they'd arranged. "How long have you been here, anyway?"

"Mr. Chekov arrived at a quarter to two," Spock says, and Chekov shrugs sheepishly.

"I was worried I might be late."

"Well, no danger of that," Jim jokes.

He takes in Chekov's appearance, his carefully tucked button-down shirt contrasting with the haphazard ringlets falling down onto his forehead. He doesn't really look like he belongs in a kitchen just yet, possibly too young and naïve for the unflagging hustle and stress that can undo even the most promising chefs—but the kid seems to have what it takes. Hiring Chekov was a gut decision and that sort of choice has never failed Jim before. Plus, he learned from Pike long ago that it's hardly ever a bad idea to take a chance on a young, talented upstart—though Jim can't imagine Chekov being as much of a pain in the ass as he's always been. But he's a special case, really.

"Chef McCoy and Chef Scott are in the kitchen, handling prep," Spock says, interrupting his thoughts.

"Great, I'll bring Checkers on back to meet them." Jim cocks his head and smirks faintly at Spock. "And what about Chef Uhura?"

"I'm told she will arrive shortly," Spock replies, nodding slowly and obviously trying to sound as curt as possible.

"Uh huh. Okay, kid, let's go."

Jim beckons for Chekov to follow him and he does, after thanking Spock for a thought-provoking conversation. He's not sure he's ever met a person so weirdly polite in his entire life. Even Spock—previously thought to be _the_ most courteous guy on god's green earth—isn't above a little sarcasm now and then. Maybe the kid's just nervous. He leads him into the dining area, motioning around them.

"Welcome to my playground," he says.

Chekov gapes as he takes in the place for the first time, though Jim is sure he's seen photos of the interior before, if he's ever opened up an issue of _Food & Wine_ or _Bon Appétit_. The design is breathtakingly complex yet simple: silvers and grays and whites, like the sky above Central Park right before a snowstorm, with large, illuminated glass windows along the walls. The room is additionally lit by crisscrossing light fixtures, the junctures of which shine at varying levels so the entire ceiling almost appears flecked with stars. Each table is graced with jet black, high-backed chairs and a single, metallic light fixture hanging from the ceiling, like moons paused in orbit, aglow. Jim wishes he had something to do with it—the design was all Pike and whichever interior decorator he plucked from the Yellow Pages to help out—but it still feels like it's his own. Enterprise is like his girlfriend, in a way, and he's madly in love with every beautiful inch of her.

"It is...spectacular in person," Chekov whispers, looking at him. "Like...a sleek, otherworldly spacecraft."

Jim nods thoughtfully, impressed with the description. "You've got a way with words, kid. What're you, some kind of sci-fi geek?"

"I enjoy the occasional science-fiction film, _da_." Chekov gives him a crooked smile. "Most of them are too flashy and without substance, I find. And usually with a moronic, overcompensating lead character."

"Well, that's Hollywood for you, I guess. Come on; let's get you in with the gang."

When they enter the kitchen, Bones and Scotty are having an argument, naturally. Both men are waving their arms around and shouting obscene things at each other, so in Jim's estimation, it must be over something extremely important or not important at all; even without asking Spock to estimate the probability, he's 99.46 percent sure it's the latter. Chekov shrinks slightly beside him, obviously unused to the raging egos of the contemporary kitchen. He'll get over it soon, Jim thinks. He'll have no choice if he wants to work here.

Bones turns swiftly and regards Jim with a huff. "Jim! Tell this _dingbat_ that I'm not intentionally trying to sabotage his precious black plum Napoleon, and that if he thinks I ordered the wrong amount of plums on purpose, he should go back to fucking Glasgow and stick it up his bagpipe."

"I'm from _Aberdeen_!" Scotty yells indignantly, throwing his chef's hat down on the counter. "And I _cannae_ make the Napoleon with the _puny_ amount of plums we did get," and he holds his index finger and thumb a fraction apart for emphasis. "There's no bloody way! And I've already prepared the pastry... How could the order have been so wildly wrong, I ask you?"

"Screws fall out all the time, evidently including the ones holding your brain together. The world is an imperfect place," Bones snarls. And, oh, Jim has to fight back a laugh at that one, because he _knows_ Bones is pissed if he's quoting John Hughes flicks. Usually it takes an oven explosion or a sudden grease fire or Jim jumping on the bed early in the morning and yelling, "EARTHQUAKE!" to push him _that_ far. Though the last time he jumped on the bed, Bones smacked him hard enough with a pillow to send him flying into the bedside table lamp, so he's since given up on that particular wake-up method.

"Gentlemen," Jim interrupts, holding up a hand to silence them. He then gestures to the young man cowering beside him. "This is our new _commis_ , Pavel Andreievich Chekov." He tries not to grin when Pavel looks surprised at his name being said correctly. Well, Jim can fix that. "Checkers, for short."

"Ehm. Chekov is fine," he says, turning slightly pink.

"Yeah, yeah. He'll be training under Uhura and hopefully learning the _entremetier_ station, in time. Checkers, this is Chef McCoy, my most capable _sous_ chef, and Chef Scott, our head pastry chef."

Chekov smiles hopefully at the two men but they're obviously disgruntled and not in welcoming moods. They regard him silently for a moment and then Scotty points an accusing finger at him.

"Aye, I remember you. You owe me a meal," he says.

"Hold on a minute," Bones grunts, shaking his head. He squints at Chekov warily. "How old are you?"

"Nineteen, sir," Chekov replies, standing tall.

"Oh, great, Jim, he's _nineteen_. This isn't a goddamned nursery school, for christ's sake. When were you gonna tell me that you hired a toddler to work back here?"

"You just think I'm looking for some fresh meat to replace your midlife-crisis-having ass," Jim snorts, which earns him a rather filthy look from his _sous_ chef. He puts an arm around Chekov and squeezes, feeling the kid tense up. "Listen. Checkers here is a winner. He made me the best damn cassoulet I've ever had, yesterday."

"And you didn't save any for me?" Scotty pouts. Bones just rolls his eyes, gesturing toward the pastry room.

"Jim, what about this plum debacle?"

"Oh, I dunno. Just put in some mascarpone or figs or something to make up for it. We've got an excess of both, so have at it."

Scotty's brows shoot up at the suggestion and he crosses his arms over his chest, tapping his chin as the gears turn. He starts to retreat into the pastry room, but points a suspicious finger at Bones as he goes. "I'm watching you, McCoy," he warns as he disappears.

"Goddamn kilt lover," Bones mutters. He turns and levels his gaze at Chekov, who seems to inch closer to Jim when he receives the death glare. "Well, if Jim says you're good, I believe him. Even if you did just graduate from kindergarten yesterday."

"That's the spirit, Bones," Jim chirps.

"I thought I was meant to be in nursery school, not kindergarten," Chekov retorts, looking slightly—could it be?— _smug_. Jim laughs and claps a hand to his mouth.

"Oh, snap," he says, laughing. "He got you there, Bones."

"Don't say 'oh, snap.' Who says that? Who are you, Vanilla Ice?" Bones says, and this time, Chekov is the one who's laughing. Jim scoffs and pretends to look offended.

"Bones, you know I'm the Fresh Prince of Inwood."

"You're the Fresh Dumbass of Moronville."

"Who is?" a new voice asks, and it's female. In sashays Uhura, her long ponytail swaying behind her as she walks. She puts on her chef's coat and looks between everyone with a smile. "Sorry I'm late. I had a doctor's appointment uptown."

"Lady doctor?" Jim asks, waggling his brows. Bones kicks him in the shin. "Ow, fuck! God, you're fucking grumpy today." Which he shouldn't be, after the lazy, delightfully sexy morning they shared just a few hours earlier. He supposes he has Scotty to blame for ruining Bones' good mood.

"Thank you, Len," she says, nodding to him. "If you must know, it was with a chiropractor. My back's been killing me for weeks."

"You know what's good for that? Sex." Jim grimaces when he gets another kick, this one harder. "Goddamn it, it's _true_!"

"Jim, why don't you shut your pie hole for a damn second and introduce the kid to Uhura?"

"Ugh, fine." Jim turns to Chekov and motions between them. "Uhura, this is Pavel Chekov. He's your new _commis_. Best in his class over at Starfleet, makes awesome food, likes long walks on the beach and has a surprising sassy streak. Checkers, Uhura is our _saucier_ and resident lady badass."

"Very nice to meet you, Chekov," Uhura says, exchanging a friendly handshake with him. "Pike told me some very flattering things about you; I'm sure you'll fit in perfectly."

"Didn't say anything to _me_ ," Bones grumbles, leaning against the counter.

Chekov smiles brightly to the _saucier_ and Jim imagines he must be glad to meet someone who isn't crazy, right off the bat. Uhura's unique personality tends to reveal itself over time. "Thank you," the kid says, nodding. "Is Uhura your given name?"

"Surname. It's what I go by, though."

"That reminds me," Jim says, smirking. "Uhura instituted a surname-only policy in the kitchen a long time ago. So unless someone has a nickname like you or Scotty, once we're on the go, it's last names only. Oh, except for Gaila; she hates her surname."

"You have a nickname, too." Chekov turns to Bones, looking at him curiously. "Shall I call you 'Bones,' as Chef Kirk does?"

"It's 'Chef McCoy' to you," Bones huffs, turning away and going off to do his work. Jim pats Chekov's back when he seems to deflate.

"Don't worry; only I call him that."

Chekov nods and lifts his brow. "And Mr. Spock? Does he have a surname?"

"Nah, just Mr. Spock or Spock," Jim says. "Like Cher."

He notes the way Uhura's cheeks seem to go rosy when he mentions their dashing yet aloof maitre d', even as she rolls her eyes at the joke. She excuses herself and leaves, likely to check on her fish order and start doing prep, and Jim keeps his eyes on her until she's out of sight. He whispers to Chekov, just in case she's still in earshot.

"I think Spock and Uhura have been knockin' boots for a while. But you didn't hear it from me."

"I see," Chekov whispers back, his eyes going slightly wide. "Ah, Chef Kirk?"

"I'm only Chef Kirk when we're working, Checkers. 'Jim' is good, otherwise."

"Jim." Chekov nods and smiles at him again. The kid is _all_ smiles, it seems. "Where does it come from, the nickname? 'Bones.'"

Jim opens his mouth to reply, to spill forth the entire tale, and then thinks better of it, shrugging. "Ehh. Long story. We'd be here all night and technically, we've gotta start feeding people at some point." Chekov laughs at this, his curls bouncing.

"I suspect there are lots of long stories I have yet to hear."

"Ahh, you'll hear 'em all, one day," Jim says, smiling back easily at him. "If there's anything we're all good for besides food, it's telling kick-ass stories."

Chekov's smile seems to grow even wider and brighter, if it's possible, and Jim decides right there and then that he's taking a liking to this kid. Hell, anyone who can put Bones in his place with a single sentence is aces in his book. And it's even more impressive, knowing that English isn't his first language. Chekov is smart when it counts and savvy in the kitchen, he can tell, and even though he's bound to set something on fire tonight—first nights _always_ end in accidental fire, Starfleet honor roll be damned—he thinks the kid's going to do all right.

Jim glances over to the far wall to make sure the fire extinguisher is in its place, and then makes a mental note to remind Spock of its location. "Let's go over tonight's menu," he says, wrapping his arm around the kid's shoulders and leading him out of the kitchen.

 

V.

Jim cursed under his breath as he walked out of the elevator, clutching a parking violation in his fist—his third in two weeks. He let himself into Pike's loft and sighed in relief at the smell of coffee, heading straight to the kitchen. Pike was there, making himself an omelet that smelled nothing short of amazing.

"You got a second one of those for me?" Jim asked, sliding onto one of the tall stools by the kitchen island. Pike threw him a disinterested look over his shoulder.

"Just because I'm letting you crash here for free doesn't mean I'm the chef and the maid, too. Which reminds me; you left a sock on the bathroom sink." Pike raised a hand to still Jim when he moved to go and retrieve said sock. "Forget it; I threw it out."

Jim huffed at him and sat down again. "Aw, come _on_ , man. I need my socks."

"Yes, I know, so don't leave them on my sink again." Pike slid a plate in front of him, then, with a third of the omelet—spinach, plum tomatoes and feta, Jim saw—and some home fries with sautéed onions. He handed him a fork and watched as Jim eagerly dug in. "You make any headway today?"

"Sure," Jim said, between bites. He made grabby hands for the cup of coffee that Pike held out to him, taking a long and grateful sip. He'd been running around all morning, at Pike's behest, looking for some kind of part-time work that could help pay the bills he was sure to incur once Pike put him out on his ass. Starfleet, as fancy as it was, didn't deem it necessary to provide living accommodations for their culinary whiz kids. Pike had said something about how living in the city gave students more of an opportunity to experience its many cultures and cuisines, blah blah blah. _We're too cheap to build a dorm_ , is all that Jim heard. At least that would have been an honest explanation.

He wasn't used to waking up so early, since his shift at the diner back home never started until midday. Pike had let him sleep in for a grand total of two mornings before waking him up one day at eight o'clock with the forceful, repeated meeting of a metal ladle and a soup pot. Jim's response had been to gracefully fall off the edge of the sofa, flailing throughout the trip between the plush cushions and the hardwood floor. He'd mumbled to himself about how birds didn't even wake up that early, until he took a look out the living room window and saw the city alive and bustling below. Still didn't seem right.

"Any leads?" Pike asked now, leaning against the counter and sipping from his own coffee. Jim shrugged.

"Put in some applications at diners, a few bistros...got a hot girl's number, got a parking ticket..."

"Another one?" Pike huffed. He picked up the ticket after Jim pushed it across the countertop, looking mildly guilty. "That's it—you've got to sell that bike, kid. I know you think I'm made of money, but I can't afford to keep paying off your tickets just because you don't know how to read alternate-side parking signs."

"They're confusing! Some streets are no Thursdays, some are no Fridays...I can't keep up!" Jim tried to look as cute and charming as possible, giving Pike the winning grin that often got him out of sticky situations. It wasn't quite doing the trick today; Pike just rolled his eyes and turned away to plate his own food. Jim deflated, digging into his omelet again. "Ugh, fine. I'll sell it. Somehow."

"Good idea. Just sell it on Craigslist or something. You can use the money from that for a security deposit on an apartment, too. Win-win."

"Sounds pretty no-win to me," Jim grumbled, scooping an equal amount of eggs and onions onto his fork. "Who's Craig?"

"You really _are_ from Iowa, aren't you?" Pike said, laughing. Jim sneered at him, feeling offended but not knowing exactly why. The older man just laughed again, taking a last look at the ticket before putting it aside and sitting down to eat. He opened up his newspaper, spreading it on the counter and nodding to himself, beginning to read. "You've got spinach between your teeth, by the way. Kind of ruins that gotta-love-me grin you're always sporting."

"Damn it," Jim grumbled. He spent the next five minutes trying to suck the spinach from his teeth before Pike took pity on him and shooed him away to the bathroom.

"Try not to lose any socks on the way," he called.

"Your omelet needs more salt!" Jim retorted.

"No, it doesn't."

"Yeah, no...it doesn't," he conceded. He sighed and looked in the mirror, baring his teeth and grabbing some floss.

*

The subway was even more of a nightmare than Jim had imagined it would be. Pike lived in the West Village and the stations in his neighborhood all had those unmanned booths with signs that promised a helpful attendant was roaming around, ready to provide assistance, and yet it seemed that either the attendant didn't exist or was invisible. He'd gotten a ton of money for his bike, more than he expected, but it still didn't seem worth the hellish experience of riding the New York City subway system.

Pike had reminded him to buy a Metrocard, so there he was, standing in front of the machine that refused to just be nice and take his money and give him one. After accidentally requesting Chinese instructions instead of English and then choosing the wrong kind of card, Jim found himself crushing his twenty-dollar bill in his fist, ready to just knock the damn thing over, like a hulking cow in a field.

Someone behind him cleared his throat, obviously growing impatient, and Jim ignored it, pushing more buttons.

"Hold your horses," he muttered. He pressed a new button and squinted when the screen did the exact opposite of what he wanted it to do. "What the fuck...?"

"You need some help there, kid? Kinda in a hurry back here."

Jim scowled then, annoyed at the voice making itself heard from behind him. Some asshole who couldn't wait just a minute or two; typical New Yorker shit, he figured, though he did detect a Southern lilt to the man's speech—one of those entitled transplants, maybe.

"I'm fine," he grunted, putting his twenty down on the panel. A strange hand reached out suddenly and swiped it, and Jim turned immediately, enraged and nearly ready to throw a punch. " _Hey_!"

He stood face to face, then, with the most ruggedly handsome man he'd ever seen, all wild eyes and haphazard dark hair, chiseled features stiff and marked by a five o'clock shadow, mouth set in a frown. He wore a rumpled beige trench coat and a striped shirt with jeans, and he was holding out Jim's money with a severely arched brow.

"What're you, some kind of tourist, or something? You can't just put money down in the subway, or go waving it around. Somebody's bound to come and take it from you. Here."

The man thrust the money back into Jim's face and he took it with a wary glance, nodding faintly. He didn't exactly think he was waving anything around, but he decided not to argue with the guy's exaggeration.

"Thanks, I guess. M'not a tourist...I just moved here."

"And, lemme guess, you've never bought a Metrocard before. We don't have horse-drawn buggies around here, kid. Well, we do, but they're sure as hell more expensive than a train ride." The man rolled his shoulders and looked Jim up and down before their eyes met briefly. Jim was getting pretty sick of people calling him "kid" around here, but he found it hard to protest when he was looking into that hard-edged stare and the swirls of green and brown behind it. The man exhaled, then, stepping forward and nudging Jim out of the way. "Just let me do it for you. What do you want, a twenty-dollar card?" he asked, already pressing buttons.

"Uh...yeah," Jim said. He looked between the screen and the man's face, and inserted the money into the feed when he was told to. Soon enough, a shiny, new Metrocard popped out of the machine, and the man handed it to him with a faint smirk. "Thanks," Jim said, bewildered and left wondering how he would ever manage to do that on his own.

"You need a receipt?" the guy drawled.

"Huh? Oh...no, s'okay."

"All right." The man pressed the exit button and then pulled out his own wallet, nodding to Jim. "Off you go, then."

"Ah...yeah. Okay."

Jim blinked, too dazed to say much else. He started to back away, looking down at the Metrocard as he approached the turnstile, and carefully slid it through the sensor. The green "go" light was paired with a call from the area of the machines.

"Good luck, kid," the man said. He nodded and Jim returned the gesture, making his way through the turnstile.

Unfortunately, the guy didn't show up on the downtown platform, and Jim was dismayed to see him heading down the stairs to the uptown trains, across the station. Jim kept his eyes on him for a while, half-hoping he would notice and maybe wave or shout out his name and number, but it never happened. The uptown 1 pulled up and the gruff Southern man got on, taking a seat inside. Jim swallowed as the tone of the closing doors sounded and watched as the train sped away.

*

Luckily for Jim, he managed to run into the stranger again the very next day. Literally.

He squinted up at the Starbucks menu as he leaned on a counter and filled out an application. All those drinks, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be able to remember any of them. The people behind the counter— _baristas_ , a new word in his vocabulary—all went through the motions of making drinks as if it was second nature and somehow seemed to know the difference between "venti latte" and "double shot" and "half-caf," whatever the hell _that_ meant. And what the hell was a _Frappuccino_ , anyway? Did all these people have something against a plain, decent cup of coffee?

Jim finished up and went to stand in line, needing a bit of caffeine. He dug into his pocket for money and found he had just enough for a regular coffee, which was exactly what he wanted—nothing more, nothing less.

"Never spent so much on a damn cup of coffee in my life," he muttered as he paid. He wanted to leave a tip but the drink was just too damn expensive. Jim turned around with a sigh and bumped right into another person, causing his coffee to splash slightly, out of the little sipping hole in the plastic lid. It ended up as a blotch on the rumpled beige trench coat of the man from the subway.

"Oh...shit," he gasped, looking up at the guy. He didn't really look angry, just peeved, and when he looked at Jim and made the connection, he actually let out a rough laugh. The sound of it made Jim's toes tingle.

"Well, if it isn't the Accidental Tourist," he said, dabbing at the spot on his coat with his fingers. "Come to bring some more slapstick into my life?"

"Fuck, I'm really sorry. I didn't burn you, did I? Fuck." Jim looked around for napkins or towels and the guy waved a hand, shaking his head.

"Forget it. I gotta get it cleaned, anyway." He let someone else go ahead of him as he regarded Jim with a resigned expression, pursing his lips. "Lemme guess: you live around here?"

"No. Well...for now. I'm just staying with a...a friend. Until I find a place." Jim nodded, holding his coffee with both hands and trying to stand straighter. This guy absolutely knocked him off his game, for some reason. He didn't really like it, but it was worth a little humiliation to see those eyes again. And that jaw, and those lips. "You?"

"Same. Well...my ex. So, not really a friend." He frowned, then, turning his head when the girl at the register called him over. The guy always seemed to be frowning. "What're you having, kid?"

"Just a regular coffee."

"Good," he said, whatever that meant, and he motioned back to Jim. "I'll have what he's having."

Jim waited around as the man received and paid for his coffee, not knowing if he was meant to just leave or continue the conversation. He _wanted_ to continue it, of course, but it was sort of awkward, just launching into a dialogue with a complete stranger who, while incredibly good-looking, didn't seem all that interested in talking to him, if the "tourist" stuff was any indication. Jim busied himself with reading the copy on the back of his cup and then blinked with the realization that he hadn't yet sampled the drink. He pried the lid off, as the liquid was still burning hot, and blew on it lightly before taking a sip. He held the coffee in his mouth for a half-second before letting it pour from his parted lips, back into the contents of the cup.

"Now, that's attractive," he heard, and when he looked up, the man was regarding him with an amused smirk. "That bad, huh?"

"It's _awful_ ," Jim gasped, the bitter taste still wreaking havoc on his taste buds. "I mean, absolutely _terrible_. What the fuck is wrong with all these people?!" He motioned to all the Starbucks customers waiting in line and sitting at tables, all enjoying their coffees and coffee-infused beverages. The man laughed.

"You get used to it." Then he reached out and flicked his cup forward, causing a bit of coffee to splash onto Jim's shirt. "Now we're even, by the way," he said.

Jim blinked up at him, gaping slightly. What he wanted to declare in response was, _Dear god, I fucking HATE this city_ , but he just ended up saying, "I'm Jim."

"Len," the man said. He lifted his brow and took a long drink of his coffee, licking his lips after he swallowed. It was kind of mesmerizing. Then he patted Jim's shoulder and took his leave, stepping away. "Enjoy that coffee, Jim."

Once Len was gone, Jim looked into his cup and made a beeline for the milk and sugar station. He'd always taken his coffee black, but that obviously wouldn't do in this godforsaken yuppie haven. And, surprisingly, with three packets of sugar and a few spoonfuls of milk, it wasn't half-bad. On the downside, he could practically feel his teeth rotting. He went back to the counter, told them to rip up his application, and left.

*

A few days before orientation started at the academy, Jim went to the student lounge and posted a "roommate wanted" flyer, complete with tear-away strips printed with his new cell number. He'd done the math; with his new part-time job and his mom's promise to send him some money every month (made after she had a long argument over the phone with Pike about her baby boy going back to _that_ city when she'd done all she could to get him away from it), he could afford to share an apartment with someone, but not to live on his own. That was okay, he figured. He wasn't exactly looking forward to sharing a space with some snot-nosed, self-important wannabe chef, but he was going to have to work and learn amongst these people soon enough, anyway.

He got his first call about it that night, as he was lounging on Pike's sofa, watching reality TV. Jim sat up and answered, scratching his head. "Hyelo?"

"Yeah, I'm calling about the 'roommate wanted' ad I saw at the academy lounge," a man said. "You still looking?"

Jim grinned, immediately recognizing that rough, Southern twang. God, but he was a lucky son of a bitch sometimes.

"You're a chef, too? Len, I think you might be my dream man."

There was a moment of silence before Len muttered, "Oh, for christ's sake." And just like that, Jim knew his roommate search was already over.

They discussed the particulars the next day over brunch and a cup of coffee—not Starbucks coffee, at Jim's request, but rather beautiful French roast at a little café on Charles Street. Len—short for Leonard, Jim now learned—had also been living on a couch for a few weeks, one that belonged to his ex-wife, Jocelyn, who lived in the neighborhood with their daughter, Joanna. Jocelyn, though often a "bitch on wheels," had agreed to let Len stay with them while he looked for a place to live and got acclimated to the city, before classes started at Starfleet Academy. Len had jumped on the chance to spend some quality time with his daughter; he hadn't seen much of her since Jocelyn packed up after their divorce and moved them from Georgia to New York.

"So you're kind of a tourist, too," Jim said. He cradled his cup in his palms and smirked across the table at Len, who hadn't taken his trench off since they got there and had obviously failed to send it to the dry cleaners since their last meeting.

"Yeah, but even _I_ know not to walk around, brandishing twenty-dollar bills in this city."

"I wasn't brandishing anything. Jeez." Jim huffed, spreading jam onto his croissant. "So you came up here to go to school at the academy. What were you doing before?"

"Med school," Len replied, easy as you please, and Jim nearly choked on his pastry. The other man laughed, taking a bite of his sandwich. "It wasn't for me. It fed off all my neuroses...too much pressure. Too many opportunities for things to go wrong in a surgery room."

"And you think working in a professional kitchen is gonna be less stressful?" Jim asked, smirking again. Len gave him an annoyed look as he swallowed and the combination of his expression with the movement of his throat was more than a bit distracting.

"No. I don't need anyone to pander to me, kid. I'm not green; I _know_ how rough it gets in a kitchen. Any number of things could go off the rails back there: grease fires, oven explosions, punk kids accidentally chopping their pinky fingers off...which I've seen happen, by the way. I even had the dubious honor of sewing the damn thing back on." Len shook his head and sipped his coffee, not seeming to notice how his little tale had already put Jim off his croissant. "Kitchens are even worse than hospitals, all smoke and danger; full of nothing but cocky know-it-alls and sharp objects for them to butcher themselves with."

"So...you want to be a chef, _why_?"

"'Cause cooking's in my bones, kid," Len said. He reached over and picked up the remainder of Jim's croissant, lifting his brow. "You gonna eat that?"

"Take it, man."

The check came soon enough and Len insisted on paying; he probably got the idea from Jim's brief description of his recent travails that he was perpetually short on cash. Jim was grateful, though he didn't expect it to continue once he started his job and they found a place. They agreed to start looking on that Craigslist thing and e-mail each other potential listings that fell into their price range.

"Well, you must really be something, if Pike dragged your skinny ass all the way up here from Iowa," Len said, fishing a scrap of paper and a pen from his inside coat pocket. "What's your e-mail address, then?"

"Big Jim at Mansluts dot com," Jim replied, grinning. Len gave him one of _those_ looks and he laughed, thinking he'd be seeing a lot more of them in the future. "I've never had one before, actually, but they gave me one at the academy yesterday. Lemme see." He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his back pocket and read from it. "JT dot Kirk at Starfleet dot edu."

"Kirk?" Len repeated. His brow rose sky-high as he looked up at Jim and then scribbled down the address. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured. "Guess I'm not the only one with cooking in his bones."

"Guess not," Jim said, licking his lips. He finished his coffee and slid the paper over to Len, so he could write his address, right under Jim's.

Jim only started calling him "Bones" after he found out how adept the guy was at filleting and deboning fresh fish. He decided that could be the short version of the story.

 

VI.

Hikaru wakes with a start when a loud crash rings out in the bathroom, which is inconveniently located right across from his bedroom. He reaches out blindly, as if to grab a baseball bat that isn't there and jump into action.

"Sorry!" a voice calls out. Gaila, his roommate. He groans and flops back onto his bed.

"Damn, Gaila, I was having such a nice dream, too." He turns his head and squints blearily at his alarm clock, groaning again. "I don't even have to wake up for another hour."

"I know, but I'm late!"

Gaila runs by his door, which is slightly ajar, dressed only in a towel, her red hair trailing behind her in a tangled, fiery mass. He can guess well enough that she's probably dripped all over the hardwood floor of their hallway. The reason she's late is also fairly predictable; if he listens closely, he can hear her frantically trying to usher someone out of the apartment, someone with a distinctly male voice. Figures that's why her bedroom door was shut when he got home last night. They often travel home from the restaurant together but he had to stay late last night doing prep work for today, and then wound up falling asleep on the train and getting lost, of all things. If not for that friendly guy he ran into on the street, he might still be roaming around Rego Park.

He blinks when the thought crosses his mind that his nice dream might very well have been about that helpful stranger. Of course, he can't recall a face now.

The front door slams shut in the distance and a moment later, Gaila reappears in his doorway, cringing. "I'm really sorry, Karu. I know you get to go in later today; I didn't mean to totally ruin your sleep."

"S'okay, G." Hikaru waves a hand at her and then runs it through his hair, which he imagines is standing on end as it usually is after a night's sleep. "You have fun last night?"

She grins impishly, shrugging a shoulder. "Let's just say one of the patrons wanted to give his compliments to the chef." She giggles as Hikaru smirks, but then just as quickly turns her nose up. "He was so clingy, though; I had to practically throw him out. And he snored all night."

"Deal-breaker," he says, nodding. He tilts his head curiously. "I thought you were late?"

"I am! Here, hold on."

Gaila goes rushing out of the room again and returns about thirty seconds later with an armful of clothes, throwing them on the bed and pulling off her towel, getting dressed right in front of him. Hikaru laughs and lays back, his arms folded behind his head. She does this more often than would seem normal to most people, but he doesn't mind at all—it's nothing he hasn't seen before. He knew all about Gaila's ways even before he moved from San Francisco to New York, thanks to Kevin Riley, his old buddy from high school who moved to the East coast after graduation to pursue a culinary degree. Riley knew Gaila from Starfleet Academy and when Hikaru decided to move to New York on a whim after six months of sitting around in his hometown, post-college with useless biology degree in hand (useless in the sense that he didn't relish the idea of pursuing a doctorate, as much as he loved his botany concentration), he wrote to his old friend and asked if he knew someone looking for a roommate. Gaila was the first name to come up.

"She's a little crazy, though," Riley said, over the phone. "Just one of those women who oozes sex. I wouldn't be surprised if you sleep with her the first time you meet her."

"You're exaggerating, man," Hikaru replied, laughing.

Then, of course, he got to New York and crashed with Riley for a week, met Gaila for a drink and promptly slept with her. There was just something irresistible about her, some sort of devastating charm that she radiated. And it was good sex, but the connection wasn't exactly there. He rolled onto the mattress after they were done and stared up at the ceiling, ready to dive head first into a panic over the awkward conversation that was sure to ensue. But then Gaila turned onto her side, smiled at him and said, "So, you're not a vegetarian, are you? Because I won't stand for that sort of thing in my apartment."

To this day, they've remained both roommates and best friends.

Gaila fastens the clasp on her bra and then pulls on her blouse, sweeping her bright red curls out from the collar. "So, was last night okay? Or did it take forever?"

"It took forever," Hikaru replies, muffling a yawn into his hand. "Then I friggin' fell asleep on the train—the _wrong_ train—and woke up in Rego Park."

"You're kidding." Gaila laughs in surprise, shimmying into her skirt and tucking her blouse into the waistband. "I don't even know where that is. Did you take a cab back?"

"I was going to, but then I ran into this guy who told me how to get back here by train. I was walking down the street, trying to figure out where the hell I was, and I just ran right into him. He was really helpful."

"Cute?" Gaila asks, grinning brightly. Hikaru laughs faintly, nodding.

"Ah...yeah, actually. Very cute."

She nudges his knee. "Well, did you get a number?"

"No," he says, his face falling. "I didn't even get a name."

"Faaaaail," Gaila drawls. She looks in the mirror and tousles her hair, tossing him a severe look over her shoulder. "See, this is why you never get dates, Karu. You're always letting these golden opportunities pass you by. Zoooom," she says, moving her hand through the air in an airplane motion. Hikaru runs a hand over his face and huffs.

"We can't all be as freewheeling and sexually liberated as you, G. He was just some random dude on the street."

"Well, you should be! How else are you going to meet people in this city? We're all so immersed in our own little worlds, racing by each other at the speed of light. If we don't make an effort to crash into each other," and she smacks her hands together in a colliding gesture, "then we'll never get to connect with anyone."

Hikaru shuts his eyes, pressing his cheek to his pillow. "Mmm. And you call an endless string of one-night stands 'connecting' with people?"

"Yes," Gaila says curtly. Then she smacks Hikaru's bare thigh, hard, making him jerk with a shout. "Dickweed."

"That fucking hurt!" he protests, rubbing the already red mark on his thigh.

"See? We connected. My hand and your leg." She leans down and kisses his cheek, as if to make up for the smack, and then walks to his doorway, waving to him and sing-songing sweetly. "See you at work!"

Hikaru grunts and pulls the covers up, turning onto his side. He peers one more time at the clock and wonders if he can manage to get in another half-hour of sleep. After fifteen minutes, he gives up and pulls himself out of bed, going to the kitchen to make himself a grilled cheese sandwich. He makes sure to use a lot of Gaila's fancy, organic cheddar.

*

He stills feels groggy when he gets to Enterprise, but he knows he'll liven up once he's inside and has things to do. When he walks through the glass doors, Spock is standing at his podium by the reception area and he looks up, regarding Hikaru with a single nod. He nods back, waving a hand in a half-salute.

"Afternoon, Spock."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sulu. If I could have a moment of your time..." He steps out from behind the podium, hands clasped behind his back in his usual slightly sterile manner. Hikaru pauses in his stride and shrugs.

"Sure thing. What's up?"

"Chef Kirk has asked me to inform you that a new _commis_ will be joining our kitchen staff tonight. He will be working under Chef Uhura." Spock lifts his brow slightly, and it occurs to Hikaru that he must be thinking of a way to convey Kirk's message politely. "Chef Kirk has predicted that tonight's service is at risk of disruption, due to a new pair of hands in the kitchen, and he suggested I prepare you in advance for such an outcome."

Hikaru blinks, laughing after a moment. "So, basically, Kirk thinks someone's eyebrows are gonna get singed off."

"Something of that nature, yes," Spock says, quirking a very subtle smile. "The young man seems very intelligent and capable, however. His name is Pavel Chekov."

"Okay, cool. What is that, Russian?" He scratches his head, having a quick flashback to the boy from the night before. He had an accent; was that Russian?

"I believe so, yes." Spock moves back to his podium and his book full of notes written in his impeccable penmanship. "Are you well today, Mr. Sulu?"

"Yeah, just tired after last night. Hey, did Gaila make it here in time?"

"I believe Chef Gaila was punctual this afternoon." He looks down and writes something in his book, arching one of his severe eyebrows. "Barely."

"Sounds about right," Hikaru says, smirking. "Thanks for the info. And see you in a bit." He nods and waves again to Spock, heading toward the dining room. The maitre d' simply nods in return, granting him a small, courteous bow.

The dinner service is just getting started when a familiar cloud of perfume swirls around him, and he doesn't have to look up from his final prep work to know that Gaila's standing beside him. "Oh, my god. The new chef is _so_ cute, Karu. Like, ridiculously adorable. I want to pinch his cheeks and let him go down on me."

Hikaru rolls his eyes, looking up at her with a vague smile. "What makes you think he'd want to?"

"Doesn't everyone?" she replies, looking every bit the wide-eyed, earnest little girl. But then she grins fiercely and gives herself away, and they're both laughing. "No, but really. You have to come and see him at some point."

"Sure thing. When I'm not busting my ass in the dining room and making sure all the other servers are busting theirs equally."

"You're such an ass-buster. That's kind of hot. We should make a personal ad for you tonight on Match.com and say your nickname is 'The Ass-Buster.'"

"Damn it, G. Go roast a pig or something."

"I was just _going_ to," she says, rolling her eyes dramatically and walking away.

The service itself goes pretty well; they've got a good amount of patrons and the tips are decent, and all of the servers on the schedule for tonight are actually present. Hikaru thinks after about two hours that he hasn't heard about any fracas or ruckus in the kitchen, so the new guy must be holding his own. Either that, or McCoy has got him in a stranglehold and the poor dude is too busy choking to scream for help. He's been too busy to communicate with anyone in the kitchen aside from Janice and Kirk, so he hasn't been able to take a look at the newbie, as Gaila so furtively suggested. If she's got her sights set on the guy, though, it doesn't really matter what _he_ thinks, anyway. He learned that the hard way, long ago. And she doesn't even do it on purpose, so he can't ever be annoyed with her. Damn Gaila.

Another half hour later and one of his diners calls him over, suggesting that his meal is over-salted. Hikaru apologizes, as he's meant to do, and brings the offending plate back to the kitchen, handing it over to Janice Rand, their intrepid expediter, with a shrug.

"The guy says it's too salty. Can we get a fresh one?" he asks. Janice nods and brings the plate to Uhura.

"Uhura, we've got a salt issue," Janice says, causing Uhura to look up from her work. Hikaru watches her grab a spoon and take a taste, and then idly looks around the busy kitchen to see if he can spot this Chekov guy. No one but the usual suspects. Uhura gets his attention again when she throws her spoon down and flicks her ponytail. That's never a good sign.

"Oh, hell no. This shit is _trifling_. That's not too salty at _all_."

"Then I guess he wants it bland," Janice says. Uhura groans and takes the plate back, shaking her head.

"Peons," she mutters, then calls back behind her. "Chekov, where's that asparagus?"

Just then, a lanky, curly-haired guy comes running in from the other room, carrying a tray of asparagus, ready to be seasoned and sautéed. Hikaru takes one look at him and freezes in surprise when he sees it's the same guy from the street, the one who told him how to get back home from Rego Park. What are the chances? Chekov looks up and makes eye contact with him, and it's probably a big surprise to him, too, because he proceeds to walk into a table and trip over himself, falling forward, asparagus and all. And, unfortunately for Chekov, he bumps into McCoy along the way, nearly bringing him down with him.

"Goddamn it! JIM!" McCoy yells, and Kirk comes running over, bending to help poor Chekov up while the _sous_ chef waves his arms around angrily. "The kid just ruined two damn pounds of asparagus in one fell swoop!"

"Yeah, I see that, Bones. Chill out. You okay, Checkers?"

Kirk helps to dust Chekov off and McCoy keeps ranting about how they're not being paid to supervise a playground or something, but Chekov doesn't seem to hear, instead blushing a deep pink and looking up at Hikaru. He squints, hoping he appears sympathetic as he smiles slightly and waves to the boy. It doesn't seem to be the right gesture, as it sends Chekov running off to the back room again, leaving behind a bewildered Kirk, McCoy and Uhura.

"What the hell is wrong with this kid? He's like a scared bunny rabbit," McCoy growls.

"Calm down, Bones; it's his first night. You remember what your first night in a restaurant was like."

"Damn it, Jim, I told you never to bring that up again."

Hikaru perks up at the possibility of hearing an embarrassing McCoy story, but then Uhura interrupts to say, "I'll have a new plate in a few minutes," and Chekov comes back with a new tray of asparagus, his head bowed, and he figures he ought to get back to work. He goes back to the table to politely tell the salt-hater that the situation is currently being rectified and to thank him for his patience.

*

The end of the night's service can't come any sooner than it does, and he heads outside the back door of the restaurant to lean against the building and light up a smoke. Kirk was right when he prophesized that things might get hectic and he's happy to have a reprieve. Hikaru takes a long drag off his cigarette and tries to wave the smoke away so that his clothes don't absorb the smell. He's not supposed to smoke back here, really, but he doesn't get paid enough to care.

He closes his eyes and doesn't notice right away when the back door opens, just raises his cigarette back to his lips and sucks on the filter, hungry for the nicotine. Hikaru blinks when he gets the sensation he's being watched and sees that he is—by Chekov, who's just standing there and staring at him with a large trash bag in his arms.

"Oh...hey. Hi." He blinks again, smiling to him and exhaling his smoke. The guy keeps staring at him and it's a little weird, but it is a pretty big coincidence that they've met like this again. He's probably just as shocked as Hikaru is. "It's Chekov, right? Ah...Peter?"

"Pavel," he corrects, but nods anyway. "Pavel Chekov, yes." He puts the trash bag down and finally offers Hikaru a timid smile. "You are the man who was lost in my neighborhood last night."

"Yeah, that's me. Kind of crazy that we ended up crossing paths again like this."

"I was thinking the same." Chekov blushes again, just a tiny bit, and goes to throw the bag in the dumpster, which is probably difficult, given that it's twice his size. Hikaru figures he must be insanely shy. "You made it home safely, then?"

"I did. Thanks again, really...your directions were perfect."

"It is no problem at all." He shakes his head and then looks at his hands, looking disgusted. "Chef McCoy told me I have to take out all of the trash tonight, for being so clumsy and ruining the asparagus."

"As if they all don't drop things all the time." Hikaru rolls his eyes, taking another drag from his cigarette, which Chekov seems to watch with interest. He pulls his pack out from his pocket and holds it up. "Want one?"

"No, thank you. Perhaps another time," he says, with a gracious smile.

Chekov steps into the light, then, and Hikaru's breath hitches slightly when he can see all of his face clearly. Gaila was definitely right about him being cute, though he made the same assessment on the street last night. He's young, definitely young—though surely not as young as McCoy made him out to be, which would be about twelve or so—and he has delicate, sloping cheekbones and a pert chin. His eyes are a cloudy blue, almost gray, and his nose is cute but strong at the same time. And his mouth, well: pink, very pink, with ample lips that seem more feminine than they should be. Plus, there are those distinctive curls that he noticed the first time, that he can almost remember reaching out and touching in his dreams.

Okay, so sue him if he doesn't want Gaila to have this one. Not that he's got a shot of any kind, but damn it, she shouldn't be allowed to claim _all_ the good ones.

"So, um," he finally says, flicking some ash away. "Not the best first night?"

"No," Chekov replies, pursing his lips. "But Chef Kirk warned me it might be awkward. I am learning that nothing quite prepares you for being in a professional kitchen. But there is no other place I want to be, so I'll get used to it."

"Well, at least you're optimistic." Hikaru has to smile at that, if not a bit sadly. He often feels like he's surrounded by chefs who would all die for their craft. Besides botany, to an admittedly much lesser extent, he's never been passionate about anything in his life. He often wonders what it must be like to be so self-assured about one's personal mission, to love doing something so much that you're willing to do anything in order to pursue it. "Are you fresh out of school, then, Chekov?"

"Oh, please, we are not working now. Call me Pavel."

"Okay. Pavel, then." He returns Pavel's big smile, feeling a little warm inside at the sweet stretch of his mouth.

"Better," he says with a nod, and then tilts his head. "It's unfair, though; you know my name but I do not know yours."

"Oh! Dude, sorry about that. It's Hikaru Sulu." He feels a little weird, introducing himself so awkwardly, so he extends a hand and Pavel shakes it, laughing.

"Hikaru Sulu. That's Japanese, _da_?"

"Yep. I'm second generation, though, from San Francisco originally. And, as you saw, new enough to New York that I still get lost on the trains sometimes."

Pavel nods, still smiling to him. "And you are a server here?"

"Head server, yeah." Hikaru takes one last drag from his cigarette and looks away as he throws it down and stubs it out. He feels a little embarrassed, talking to this kid who's a rising star in the making and likely younger than him, when all he does is walk food over to people. "Just got promoted a couple of months ago."

"Oh, congratulations, Hikaru!" Pavel exclaims, and the way he says his name is friggin' adorable, just like Gaila said. He smiles for Pavel's sake, shaking his head and waving a hand dismissively.

"Whatever. I should be the one congratulating you, for landing a job at one of the best restaurants in the city. And at such a young age."

"You do not know my age," Pavel says, a wry smile creeping onto his face.

"Well," Hikaru starts, mirroring the expression and shrugging one shoulder. Before he can go on, Gaila pops her head out of the back door, spotting them together and breaking into a big grin. He's not exactly _unhappy_ to see her, but man, she has a knack for interrupting nice moments.

"Oh, hi, Chekov! I was just looking for Karu. A bunch of us are thinking of going out for a drink." She winks at Hikaru and then looks at Chekov with an inviting smile. "Wanna join in? Celebrate your first night?"

"Ahh, thank you, but I am not yet twenty-one," Pavel says, and Hikaru looks at him with a faint smirk. He knew it.

"Oh, no! Well, we'd find a way to get you in. Jim knows all the bars around here."

"Only if it does not cause any trouble."

"I'll ask him," Gaila says, and she flashes Hikaru a knowing smile before she vanishes. They stand there for a few awkward moments before Pavel shrugs, going to the door as well. Hikaru sighs, knowing their nice moment has officially passed.

"I suppose I must finish taking out the trash," he says.

"Okay, well...cool. Hopefully Kirk can find a way to sneak you in, so we can talk more."

"That would be nice."

Pavel opens the door and nods to him, ducking his head as he goes back into the kitchen area, leaving Hikaru slightly breathless in his wake. He stands there, reassessing the previous few minutes in his head, and then ends up pulling out another cigarette. He's just about to light it when Gaila appears again, pointing between them and speaking in a loud stage whisper.

"Later: you and me. I want to hear _everything_."

After she leaves, Hikaru can't help but smile vaguely around the filter of his cigarette.

 

VII.

Uhura swirls her short, plastic straw around the last of her Cape Cod and lifts her brow when Gaila finally pauses in her story—which isn't that much of a story. "So, all he told you was that Chekov's the same guy who gave him directions?"

"Yeah!" Gaila tosses her red curls back from her shoulder and looks over at Sulu and Chekov at the other end of the bar, in the midst of what appears to be a very animated conversation. "God, I bet he's talking about plants again. Poor Chekov."

"Oh, god." Uhura laughs suddenly, her ponytail swaying with the motion of her body. "Can you imagine if Chekov actually shared his interest? We'd never hear the end of it."

"They'd be like Adam and...Adam. In the Garden of Loooove." Gaila giggles and glances back at them a shrug. "S'too bad he's probably gay. He's so cute."

"Who's cute?"

Both women turn their heads and spot Jim, who's suddenly popped up at the bar behind them. Uhura rolls her eyes and Gaila smiles wryly. Gaila's always had a thing for Jim, which Uhura can't fathom or ever hope to understand. While a brilliant chef, he's also been a complete sleaze for as long as she's known him, even if he is, as Gaila always points out to her, "a sleaze with a heart of gold." Plus, he's in love with Len, which should be enough to send anyone else packing, but not Gaila. Uhura often wonders if Gaila's actually in it to win Jim's affections, or if she just enjoys the flirtation. Okay, she definitely enjoys the flirtation.

"Chekov," Gaila replies with a wink. "Don't you think so, Jim?"

"He's kind of small for my tastes. But hey, looks like Sulu's got him reeled in, anyway."

"Yeah," Gaila sighs. "I've decided to let him have this one. He could use the sex. He's so tense lately." She finishes her drink with a loud slurp of her straw. Uhura just shakes her head and flags down the bartender.

"Two more Cape Cods, please."

"Oh, hey, put those on my tab," Jim says, raising a finger with a slight forward lurch that Uhura recognizes as the first stage of Drunken Kirk. "With another round for me, too. The special."

"Jim, you don't have to do that," she says.

"What, why not? You two are my favorite, best lady chefs." The backhanded compliment gets him a smack on the shoulder from Uhura and he yelps, teetering on his stool. "What?! You _are_ ladies, aren't you? God, so touchy."

"Jim, do I need to get Len over here to drag your drunken ass home?" Uhura asks. Gaila giggles and passes her one of the drinks when they're placed on the bar.

"Nah, it's cool. We're gonna take a cab home anyway; it's far away."

"Still in Inwood, right?" Uhura asks. Jim nods to her, downing his new whisky shot and then chasing it with a gulp of cheap beer. She can't help but laugh—Jim's probably got more money than god right now, thanks to the success of the restaurant, and yet he lives in one of the cheapest neighborhoods in Manhattan and loves nothing more than a bargain drink special. "Why do you insist on living all the way up there? You should move closer to the restaurant; you already know the area so well."

"I like it up there," Jim replies, shrugging. "It has, y'know...flava."

"You have never sounded more Caucasian, farmboy," she drawls, sipping from her drink. "Farmboy" is her favorite nickname for Jim, because she knows he's never worked on a farm and furthermore, he hates it.

"Well, kids," Gaila cuts in, "I should probably find out if I'm going home alone tonight or what." She leans over and kisses Uhura's cheek, whispering to her. "Are you going home with Spock tonight?"

"I don't know; I've barely spoken to him since we got here," she whispers back.

"Hey! Secrets don't make friends," Jim interjects. He sways slightly, which Uhura is pretty sure counts for stage two. Luckily, Len chooses that moment to walk over and place a reassuring hand on Jim's back, which diverts his attention. "Hey, Bones! I was just drinking about you."

"Goddamn it, Jim," Len says, frowning his fond frown that's reserved just for Jim. "How many specials have you had already? We've only been here for an hour."

Uhura smirks at them before returning her attention to Gaila, who seems to be doing some sort of strange sign language with Sulu across the bar. Probably some sort of code only they know, but it looks to Uhura as though the final conclusion is that Gaila's on her own for the evening. The redhead sighs and looks back at her, shrugging.

"Well, maybe I'll see if Scotty wants to have a go of it tonight," she says.

"I'm sure he would."

Uhura nods to herself, drinking more of her cocktail. Gaila and Scotty are fuck buddies at best, but there's no denying to anyone with two eyeballs and a working brain that Scotty's head over heels for the Enterprise's _rotisseur_. It seems to her like a match made in heaven; whenever the two get together, it's all about Gaila's two favorite pastimes: sex and food. Uhura still vividly remembers the story about the pair's date that included a starter aphrodisiac of medium rare steak and followed with a chocolate mousse torte that was...creatively engaged in the resulting lovemaking. The passing thought of it makes Uhura wish Gaila were the type of friend who believed in TMI.

"Well, I'm off to find out. I hope you-know-who shows up."

"You and me both," Uhura says, smiling.

They exchange quick kisses and then Gaila is gone, leaving her behind with the Chuckle Twins, who seem to be involved in a fun game of tug of war with Jim's beer bottle. Uhura sighs and concentrates on finishing her drink quickly—probably a little too quickly, if the head rush she gets when she puts the glass back down is any indication—so she can take her leave. As much fun as Jim and Len can be, she's lived through enough drunken evenings with them to feel okay about skipping this one.

"Okay, gentlemen. Over and out." She claps Jim on the shoulder and squeezes, kissing his cheek, then Len's.

"Uhura, you leaving already? Come onnnn." Jim pouts at her, giving her the puppy-dog eyes that don't work on anyone but Len and Gaila. "I'll buy you another drink..."

"No, thank you. I think I've had enough; I'm a bit lightheaded as is."

"You need someone to walk you home, Nyota?" Len asks, the consummate Southern gentleman. She smiles indulgently and shakes her head.

"I'll be fine, Len. Thank you. See you boys tomorrow."

"All right, darlin', you take care."

"Bye, _Nyota_ ," Jim says dreamily, lifting his brow with a broad smile as he waves to her. Uhura barely resists the urge to smack him, grabbing her coat and giving him the patented eye roll he's come to expect from her.

"Thanks for the drink, Jim," she says, and makes her way toward the exit.

It's relatively early, but she did down those drinks too fast and she could use a full night's sleep—even if a part of her wants to look around for the familiar dark hair and brown eyes she was hoping to see before the end of the evening. Uhura stops before she gets to the door to slip her coat on, pausing when she feels a pair of hands on her shoulders, guiding her arms through the sleeves.

"Nyota, do you require a companion for your journey home?" a voice says, and she looks up at the face attached to it, her heart fluttering slightly in happiness.

"That would be lovely, Spock."

She reaches down to button her peacoat and slips her arm into his when he offers it. This is bound to make the many rumors swirling around the restaurant quite official, but Uhura finds she couldn't care less, at the moment. She ducks her head shyly and leans against Spock with a smile as he leads her out of the bar.

Unlike Jim and Len all the way uptown and Gaila and Sulu out in Queens, Uhura's apartment isn't far from the restaurant; she can afford the rent just fine and she doesn't see any point in maintaining a bad commute. Spock happens to live all the way downtown, in the Lower East Side, but that isn't exactly the reason he's been choosing to stay over at Uhura's lately—not the entire reason, anyway.

It's a brisk night and Uhura thinks idly about digging her gloves out of her handbag when Spock reaches down and takes her hand in his, just like that. He's always so strangely warm, radiating a comforting level of heat that she would bury herself in if given the chance. She offers him a soft smile which he returns, just barely. She knows he's not much for smiling or really any expressions beyond mild amusement, frustration or annoyance (and all three come in quite handy working at Enterprise, under the leadership of Jim Kirk); therefore, every smile, as small or fleeting as it is, feels like a gift, bought and wrapped especially for her.

Her fingers tingle, interlaced with his, and she doesn't mind the silence at all as they walk toward Tenth Avenue. It's as beautiful as the leaves falling from the trees, making her feel like she's strolling past the canvas into a landscape painting. There's no rush, and that's the most wonderful thing of all. Spock has never rushed her.

When they reach her brownstone, Spock drops back in step to trail behind Uhura on the stairs, still holding onto her hand. When they reach the door, she turns to him and smiles, entranced by the flicker of his talented eyebrow.

"Is it your wish that I take my leave now, Nyota?"

"Actually, I was hoping you would stay. For...coffee." She bites her bottom lip impishly, toeing the ground like a shy schoolgirl. She's confident that Spock knows her well enough to know she's anything but shy. He doesn't prove her wrong, picking up on her signals immediately and tilting his head.

"It would be illogical to consume caffeinated beverages at such a late hour," he murmurs.

"I didn't say we had to drink it _now_."

Spock ducks his head to avoid giving away whatever expression he's got on, and she hopes it's a grin, even half as silly as her own. He looks up again with a nod, lightly brushing his knuckles along the slope of her cheek. "I believe spending the night would be most pleasurable, thank you."

Uhura's apartment is on the top floor of the brownstone and her front door has two locks. She fumbles slightly with the keys, as they're all that are keeping her from Spock, at this point. He simply stands behind her, the picture of patience, lightly skimming his fingers along her waist; it's enough to make her shiver, despite the layers of clothing between her skin and his. She opens the door soon enough and pulls him inside, shutting and locking it behind them. The foyer is dim, only faintly lit by the streetlamps that perch close to the tall windows. Uhura reaches out to flick the light on, but Spock's hand wraps around her wrist, effectively stopping her as he guides her back against the wall.

There's no talk or discussion, and there doesn't need to be. Spock makes quick work of the buttons on her coat and lets the garment spill from her body onto the floor, the light wool pooling around her feet. She guides his suit jacket from his torso as well, and as soon as they're both devoid of outerwear, he takes her face in his hands and kisses her. Uhura curls her hands around his biceps and holds on tight; Spock is the best kisser she's ever known, with lips that tug and suck provocatively at her own, and a tongue that only needs to flicker once over her mouth to be granted entrance. She smoothes a hand down his back and arches against him, undoes the knot of his tie and pulls it off. It used to be that in the mornings, he would have to leave early to head downtown and change into a new suit before work. Uhura got tired of that, though, and now there's always at least two spare suits in her hall closet, pressed, dry-cleaned and waiting for Spock.

Spock gets her blouse unbuttoned halfway before she gasps against his mouth, breaking the kiss and kicking off her heels, running her hands through his perfectly combed hair. "Bedroom," she whispers, and Spock wastes no time in gathering her into his arms, lifting her from the floor. Uhura wraps her legs around him and holds on tight, kissing him fiercely as he navigates through the foyer and past the living room, the route he's come to learn so well. She was surprised by Spock's strength at first, even slightly intimidated, but she's come to absolutely adore the way he can just sweep her off her feet, like some kind of ridiculously clichéd Prince Charming. She would never kid herself into thinking she's living some kind of New York romance seen through a Hollywood lens—she's no J. Lo or Sandra Bullock and Spock is definitely not Hugh Grant. But still, there's something fairy-tale-esque about their coupling, something so special and crystalline that she can't bring herself to tell anyone about it because she wants to keep it all for herself.

She's laid out on her bed with the greatest of care and her hands immediately reach up to grasp Spock's face when he climbs over her, kicking off his shoes as he crawls along the mattress. Uhura runs her thumbs over the tips of his ears, those sensitive and strangely pointed appendages that fascinate her so much. He visibly shivers and rewards her with a hungry kiss, pressing his body against hers. The warmth is radiating off him now like crazy and she can't wait to get him undressed, to get herself undressed, so she can revel in the feeling of skin on skin.

Uhura works on his dress shirt and removes it with his help, sliding her hands over his neck and chest, trailing her fingertips through the dark hair scattered beneath his collarbone. Spock quirks one of his amused smiles, likely because he finds it funny that Uhura is so fixated on his body when he's got so much foreplay in store for _hers_. She laughs softly and arches her back, letting him undo the rest of her blouse buttons and pull the fabric back to reveal the white bra beneath. He trails the pads of his fingers along the bottom edge and then over the swells of her breasts, the light touch causing her nipples to peak beneath the fabric. She lets out a shaky breath and then a moan when he lowers his mouth to the bra, licking through the material.

"Spock," she whispers, her hands sliding down his ribs and around to the firm muscles of his back that are flexing so close to the surface. Uhura pulls him closer and he immediately obliges, gliding his tongue along her cleavage and reaching beneath her to make quick work of her bra's clasp, so he can get his hands on her breasts. She scratches lightly down his shoulder blades and tilts her hips up, letting out a sigh of gratification when she finds his perfectly in place above her.

Spock urges her to lift her arms so he can remove the bra and as soon as she's done, she reaches down to take care of his pesky trousers. He stops her with a faint smile, his hand grasping hers. Uhura exhales and rolls her eyes.

"Oh, don't keep the good stuff from me," she chides.

"My estimation of 'good stuff' differs greatly from yours," he whispers. "Very well, though."

Spock shifts back and undoes his trousers himself, slipping his legs from the fabric and tossing them away, allowing her to look him over. Uhura bites the lip at the sight of her lover, his body so pale in the mixture of moonlight and lamplight filtering in through the windows. His erection presses against the firm hold of his boxer briefs and she wants nothing more than to experience it somehow, to touch or to taste. She sits up and Spock takes hold of her wrists as she reaches out, guiding her down to the bed again and pinning her arms above her head.

"Tonight is for you, Nyota," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her lips. She can only imagine what he might mean by that until his hands leave her wrists and hike up the fabric of her skirt, enough to completely expose her thighs and hips. Spock presses two fingertips to the damp fabric of her underwear, coaxing a sudden cry from her lips. He then pulls the cotton away with a rather satisfied look. It joins the growing pile of discarded clothing beside the bed.

Uhura tilts her head down with a faint pout, squirming beneath him. "Please, Spock..."

"Wait," he whispers. He peers up at her and licks his lips, a gesture so rare from him that it absolutely sets her on fire. "Let down your hair."

Uhura blinks and then laughs, understanding. Spock prefers her hair untamed and wild and she does, too, when she's not working in the kitchen. She reaches up and tugs the tie from her tight ponytail, mussing her hair until it falls completely over her shoulders, a few wisps straying over her forehead and eyes, clinging to the light sheen along her cheekbones. She marvels at the way Spock's expression changes to that of a starving man in the desert, having just spotted a glorious oasis.

"Thank you," he croaks faintly, his resolve all but shattered. The gratitude is shared equally on both sides when he drops his head between her thighs and licks a broad stripe along her entrance, flicking his tongue against her clit. Uhura tightens her legs around him with a loud gasp, curling her fingers in the short hair at the back of his neck.

"Yes, _yes_ ," she moans. Spock has the most skillful mouth, and his talents stretch far beyond regular kissing. His knowing fingertips trace delicate patterns along her inner thighs and he alternates between sucking at her folds and curling his tongue inside her, pushing deep into that molten heat. The tip of his tongue taps teasingly against her throbbing clit, circles and licks it reverently, all his ministrations efficiently bringing her to the brink and pulling her back, over and over again.

The pleasure is maddening, something that Spock always makes sure of, and she brings her thumbs to his ears in retaliation, applying pressure to the pointed curves. His moan vibrates between her legs and she arches off the bed with a cry, her hair flying over the sheets. Uhura squints down at him with a gasp and she swears she sees Spock's hips bucking against the mattress. The very sight of him coming undone, combined with the probing glide and twist of his tongue, push her swiftly off the edge, clawing at the sheets as she shouts his name.

She's barely come back to her senses when Spock is looming above her again, his normally straight-edged bangs now frayed along his forehead, matted with sweat. He opens and slips a condom onto his newly freed length, then looks up at her, brushing some hair from her jaw. Uhura almost wants to smile indulgently to him, but she knows this moment is all business for Spock. He rocks his hips and presses his full and heavy cock against her opening, making his intentions known. She lets her legs fall open and takes his hands in hers, holding on tight.

When Spock enters her, they both let out low moans of relief, elated to be joined again like this, right where they both want to be. Uhura wraps her legs around his waist and massages his fingers as he thrusts fluidly, wrenching a gorgeous sound from the back of his throat. She knows Spock has a thing about his hands, just as he has a thing about his ears, and she's made it her ongoing goal to explore the inherent possibilities as often as possible. Of course, he knows full well that she has a thing about her neck, and it doesn't take long before he's retaliating with sucking kisses along her throat and gentle scrapes of his teeth over her pulse point. It's a battle she never fails to enjoy.

Their lovemaking starts off slow and languid, their fingers entwined and chests pressed together so she can feel his quickened heartbeat. She breathes his name repeatedly, her whole world reduced to the pinpoint of his body and his heat, fucking her with a building rhythm that's bound to completely unravel her. Uhura keens softly when he lets her hand go to slide his fingers over her clit, teasing her between his thrusts. Her muscles constrict around him and pull him in further, and though his eyes widen at the sensation, the only sound he lets out is a faint gasp. Spock isn't a talker during sex, but Uhura doesn't mind at all; it's almost as though she can read his thoughts through their touch, and she doesn't need any words to interpret exactly what he's experiencing. She wouldn't be surprised if he feels the same way.

They begin to speed up as they both get closer to orgasm. Uhura can feel heat prickling all over her body and when she sees the sweat on Spock's face, glistening upon that gorgeous look of concentration, she leans up to kiss it off, sucking his upper lip into her mouth. He returns the kiss deeply, wrestling his tongue with hers and thrusting harder inside her, angling his hips and pinching at her clit. Uhura breaks the kiss when it feels like he might steal her breath completely, clinging to him as the warmth floods through her body and overwhelms her again. Her hips bear down on his cock and she grips his hand tightly, letting her climax crash through her. Spock's hips stutter as his name leaves her lips in a shaky shout and he grunts, trying to maintain his rhythm. Her muscles won't stop pulsing around him, though, and it's not long before he grunts and comes hard, pressing close as his back and arms tense.

"Nyota," he whispers, as if she might leave him. As if there's anywhere else in the world she wants to be.

"Shhh. I know."

They both catch their breath after a few moments and Uhura lets him pull out carefully, shucking off her skirt as he disposes of his condom. She gathers her long, dark hair over one shoulder and willingly falls back to the bed when Spock wraps his arm around her and gathers her close to his chest. In a moment's time, she's safely curled against him, his nose buried in her hair and their legs intertwined beneath the sheets. She smiles to herself as she listens to his breathing and decides to rest her eyes.

"Nyota," she hears again, in the same soft whisper. She wonders why Spock is still speaking until she opens her eyes to a bedroom awash in daylight. The bed dips slightly behind her as Spock sits down, running a thumb along her cheekbone and bending to kiss her shoulder. Uhura opens her eyes halfway and peers up at him, smiling sleepily. He hasn't yet showered and his hair is still adorably rumpled, his mouth set in the half-smirk that makes her dizzy. She reaches up and slides a hand over his bicep, tracing the curves of the muscle.

"It feels like I only had my eyes closed for five seconds," she murmurs.

"It is still rather early," he says, nodding. "I could prepare coffee, should we wish to fully arise. Alternatively, I could return to bed for continued rest."

Uhura glances at the clock and groans when she sees it's only half past eight. "Get your fine ass back in the bed," she commands. Almost immediately, Spock is back under the covers, arms wrapped around her form once again. She sighs and happily sinks into that familiar warmth, turning to brush a kiss over his jaw.

"My posterior appreciates the compliment," Spock murmurs into her hair, letting it spill through his fingers.

"As well it should."

She reaches around Spock to lightly pat his behind in both a fond and proprietary manner. Though he doesn't flinch, he does arch his brow curiously as he peers down at her, lifting the hand on his backside to press a kiss to her inner wrist. Uhura smiles and closes her eyes, more than ready to drop back into sleep.

"You like it," she whispers.

"Indeed," he says.

 

VIII.

Len was barely out of the subway and his phone was already ringing. He bypassed a puddle of something he was sure couldn't be water and looked at the name on the screen, sighing inwardly: Jocelyn. The only person Len liked hearing from less these days was his father, with all of his "You should have stayed in med school" and "Culinary school, _please_ " talk; his ex-wife forfeited the dubious distinction of being the worst person in his phonebook just because a call from her often meant the possibility of seeing Joanna.

"Hullo?" he answered, stepping onto the street, squinting in the fading daylight of the autumn afternoon.

"Len, it's me. You busy, or can you talk?"

"I can talk. I'm just heading home from class." He started walking up Broadway, shoving his free hand into his coat pocket. The neighborhood was primarily Dominican and he looked around, taking in the colorful surroundings that were beginning to grow on him. Granted, he liked living in the West Village a whole lot more than he liked it here—it was closer to everything and had more conveniences—but it was full of rich yuppie families that just reminded him on a daily basis of his own family dream that had failed spectacularly. He didn't miss the place much. "Everything okay? How's Jojo?"

"She's good. She got a check plus on her math homework today, so she'll be ready for the pre-med track soon."

Len had to smile at that; he was pretty sure he could hear Jocelyn smiling on the other end, too. "That's either good news or terrible, awful news."

"You be the judge, I guess." Len heard some clatter in the background and could tell Jocelyn was in the kitchen, likely making dinner for Joanna. "I actually do have some possible good news for you."

"Yeah?" He looked across the street at the supermarket and trying to remember just what kind of food he had waiting for him in his cupboard at home. "What's that, then?"

"Well, I was thinking. How would you like to have Joanna for Thanksgiving?"

Len went wide-eyed in surprise, pressing the phone closer to his ear, losing all track of his mental grocery list. "Are you serious? I mean, I can't afford to go back home and neither can Jim, so we were just gonna stay here, but...really? How come?"

"Believe it or not, I have to go to a conference," Jocelyn said on the other end, sighing. Len's face screwed up in surprise.

"A conference? On Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, well, it ends the day before. And there's just no way I'll be able to fly back in time to either make Thanksgiving dinner myself _or_ pick up Joanna and take her all the way to my parents' place, so..." She paused, and Len could just picture her leaning against the cabinets under the sink, her arms folded across her chest, all business. He smiled at the thought; he had always liked that about Jocelyn, the way she didn't mess around and let her body do the talking when it counted. "I was thinking, why subject her to my crazy schedule? I bet she'd like to spend the holiday with her daddy."

"Joce..." Len walked a few paces, stopping in front of the Domino's and exhaling heavily. A delivery boy stepped out of the store and gave him an odd look. He shook his head and _willed_ his bottom lip not to quiver in sheer happiness. "I would just love that. That's a dream come true. Jim and I'll give her a great Thanksgiving."

"Hmm, yeah, you and Jim," she replied, her smirk almost audible. Len couldn't help but wince. Jocelyn and Jim had only spoken twice; the first time, Jim had been drunk and picked up Len's phone when it rang, then proceeded to launch into a rambling rant on how Jocelyn was evil and had ruined Len's life and probably possessed some kind of golden vagina if it meant she was able to keep him for so long. The second time, he had called, at Len's command, to apologize profusely. After that, Len had resolved not to talk about his ex-wife anymore when he was drunk late at night. "How is Jim?" she asked. "Has he found a golden vagina to call his own yet?"

"If he has, I don't wanna know about it."

"Well, how about you, big boy?"

" _Joce_ ," Len grunted, trying to sound as admonishing as possible. He rolled his eyes when she just laughed in response. He didn't quite know if she was inquiring about his own sex life, or whether he was the, well..."golden" one in question. He decided to go with the former. "He and I are too busy to date right now, anyway. School's kicking our asses, more than we expected, and we've both got jobs, to boot. We barely get any time to sleep or eat, let alone paint the town red."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she sighed. Len chewed his lip and most definitely did _not_ blush. "But, okay, you're busy. School is difficult?"

"Not difficult, just time-consuming. And tiring." He exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, glancing back at the Domino's again. That disgusting, gloppy excuse for pizza actually smelled pretty good, just then. "I swear, most nights Jim and I aren't working, I come home and find him already passed out in my bed, just snoring like a—"

"In _your_ bed?" she asked, interrupting. She let out a loud peal of laughter that made him grimace. "I guess that answers my question after all!"

"It's just because his bed's so damn small and uncomfortable," he muttered. He thought about saying more but knew it wouldn't make a damn bit of difference with her.

"Yeah, okay. Sure. Oh, hey, Jojo! Wanna say hi to your daddy?"

Len perked up at the prospect of talking to Joanna, smiling immediately once he heard her voice in the background. He waited as Jocelyn handed off the phone to her, instructing her to hold it with both of her small hands, so as not to drop it. Joanna breathed an excited gust of air into the receiver and Len knew he was already all lit up like a Toys R' Us on Christmas Eve.

"Daddy?" she asked, in her sweet baby-doll voice.

"Hey there, sweetheart. How's my best girl? I hear you're a math genius. I'd better start saving for Harvard, huh?"

"Daddy, it was just homework," she chided. He had to laugh softly; she was getting to the age when everything Daddy said was becoming a little sillier and less funny, and she wasn't too shy to let him know. Just like her mother, he thought. "I'm good. Mommy has to go on a trip next month."

"I know, baby. But you can come up here and spend some time with me." And Jim, he thought, but Joanna didn't know who Jim was yet. He suddenly felt a pang of worry of whether they'd get on well or not. Jim was so gregarious that Len was willing to bet the house on the notion that he loved kids. And who wouldn't love Joanna, anyway? She was a tiny bundle of perfection. And if she was getting older and growing to be less of a tiny bundle, well, he didn't care to think about that. "What do you say, Jo? Wanna spend Thanksgiving with Daddy and his friend?"

"Yep." Len could feel the force of her fierce little nod, the one she always did when her mind was thoroughly made up. "Will your friend like me?"

"Of course, Jojo. He's gonna be crazy about you." And, just like that, Len was so sure of their inevitable connection that he decided to call it a fact. They'd get on like a house on fire; they'd have to, if Jim wanted to keep being Len's friend.

He spoke to Joanna a few minutes more, leaning against the storefront window as he heard all about what was going on in school and some junk about a "cuuuute" boy named Corey, who Len already didn't like and could tell was up to no good, despite being a second grader. Then he said his goodbyes and Jocelyn took the phone back; she snorted at him when he voiced his very important concerns about this Corey character.

"They're _seven_ ," she drawled. "They still give each other cootie shots."

"Oh. Well...it's good that they're concerned about prevention," he huffed.

Jocelyn spent the rest of the conversation laughing at him and concluded that she'd call again soon with more details about her trip. Despite her efforts to mock him, Len was still all smiles by the end of the phone call. He moved to cross the street and head to the supermarket, but hell, he'd already spent all day cooking at school and deserved the break. Plus, Jim loved that gross Domino's stuff; Len assumed his occasional bad taste came from growing up in the sticks and not having had the opportunity to consume caloric, preservative-laden food throughout his youth.

Well, it was the least he could do. Len turned on his heel and headed into the pizzeria, pulling his wallet from his back pocket.

*

Len and Jim lived in Inwood for one reason and one reason only, and that was Jim Kirk's incredible lack of maturity. Their apartment—no joke, really, as Len told everyone who asked, both in New York and back in Georgia—was located on the relatively unimpressive corner of Seaman Avenue and Cumming Street. They'd only been hunting for a few days when the realtor took them to see the place and Jim was already hysterical with laughter when they approached the intersection, just from getting a glimpse of the perpendicular street signs. Len had balked at the way Jim was all set to sign the lease before they'd even stepped foot in the damn apartment.

"Len, it's a sign!" he'd exclaimed, reaching into his messenger bag to get out his dinky digital camera. He handed it over to Len and ran over to the signpost, waving his arms. "Take a picture! And make sure you get everything in the frame!"

He'd sighed and done as he was told, snapping the photo, his fate sealed. There might as well have been a damn welcome mat on the sidewalk, right under the soles of Jim's scuffed shoes.

As it was, the apartment hadn't turned out to be so bad; in fact, it was kind of a perfect fit for their situation. It was advertised as a two bedroom but further inspection proved that it was more like one and a half, with one bedroom substantially bigger than the other. The smaller room could likely fit no more than a dresser and a twin-sized bed. Jim didn't seem to mind, as he had few possessions with him here in New York, and not much by the way of money, aside from whatever meager salary he made at his part-time job and the occasional checks his mom had promised to send (though none had yet arrived at that point). Len wasn't exactly flush, having to pay both tuition and child support to Jocelyn, but the fact did remain that he came from old money and was generally much better off than Jim. He took the larger bedroom and Jim agreed to set up shop in the smaller room, in exchange for a smaller tab on the monthly rent. And just like that, Len suddenly had the dumbest street address in all of New York City and Jim had an obscene anecdote for everyone he came across.

The night they signed the lease, Pike had taken them out for a nice meal, likely grateful and happy that Jim was finally going to be out of his hair.

"Where'd you say this place was again?" he asked, squinting at Jim across the table.

"Only the best spot on Earth," Jim said, sipping his wine. Len stirred his soup and tried not to roll his eyes too hard when Jim leaned forward conspiratorially. "It's on the corner of _Seaman_ and _Cumming_."

"Uh huh." Pike nodded, his expression a careful blend of patience and confusion. "And where is that, Brooklyn?"

"It's in Manhattan," Len said, gruffly. "Sort of."

"It's pretty far uptown," Jim agreed. Their waiter came by and placed salads in front of him and Pike, offering sprinkles of cracked black pepper. Jim just kept talking as he picked up his fork—the wrong fork, Len noted. "But it's totally worth it to have that address. I mean, we're going to have the best parties ever. Or at least, the best party invitations. And we're going to pick up so many girls when we tell them where we live. It's gonna be awesome. Hey, man, you are doing a _great_ job, by the way," he said to the waiter, who smiled dutifully, slipping away. Jim shook his head and smiled, spearing a leaf of radicchio with his fork. "I swear, the subway service in this town sucks, but the restaurant service? Grade fucking A."

Pike and Len had exchanged a look then, and the older man's expression was one that Len wouldn't soon forget. It read: _You're his babysitter now, kid._

Len thought of that look as he trudged up the stairs to his apartment, hot pizza boxes propped up with one hand. Jim had actually calmed down a lot since classes started, mainly because there was simply too much shit to concentrate on to be a clown all hours of the day. Len hadn't been lying to Jocelyn when he'd said their coursework was exhausting, and he was more used to it than Jim, having survived the rigors of med school—until he dropped out, of course. Still, he'd put more than enough time in to prepare himself for the present workload. Jim, on the other hand, had taken his old job at that roadside diner straight out of high school and never bothered with college, even though he was certainly smart enough. Len had asked him once why he didn't try and Jim had just shrugged and said, "It wasn't in the cards." And Len supposed that was true, if it meant Jim was destined to cross paths with Chris Pike one day.

He unlocked the front door and stepped inside, looking around for a sign of life. "Jim?" he called, receiving no answer. But Jim wasn't working tonight, so he knew he was around somewhere. He put the pizza down on the coffee table in the living room and went to Jim's room as a perfunctory thing, not really expecting to find him there. Just as he suspected, the sheets on the twin-sized bed were rumpled and unmade, falling off one side of the mattress to pool on the floor; there was no Jim in sight.

A few more steps down the hall and then Len entered his own bedroom, and there was his roommate, sound asleep and shamelessly sprawled on his stomach in his double bed. He'd been coming home to find Jim there often as of late; the kid claimed he had trouble sleeping in the twin bed, that it was smaller than what he was used to back at home in Iowa. But Len highly doubted he had a very large bed growing up, and knew damn well that he'd been content to sleep all day on Pike's narrow sofa. He figured Jim was homesick, lonely, and he couldn't fault him for that, especially when the guy had never even ventured out of the Midwest until a few months prior. He was far away from his mother and his family and everything that had ever been familiar. And hell, New York was loud and scary at the best of times—even late at night, safe in his own bed, Len was often startled by the sudden honk of a passing truck or the deafening noise of a souped-up car stereo, blasting some kind of thumping Latin music. They were both adjusting, here. And it was keeping that in mind, after a week of grousing at Jim about staying put in his own goddamn room like a goddamned adult, that Len stopped pushing him away and just let him remain in the bed. And like a stray cat that gets fed once by the feline-loving neighborhood kook, Jim just kept on coming back.

Len sat on the edge of the bed and nudged Jim's shoulder lightly. He knew the kid had to be exhausted, but he was also willing to bet he hadn't yet eaten. "Jim. You awake?"

"Hrm...? Yeah, yeah, m'wake," Jim slurred, lifting his head blearily. "Time is it?"

"Not morning, don't worry." Len smirked and patted his back. "I got dinner. That god-awful Domino's crap that you like."

"Yeah?" The sleepy glaze in Jim's eyes melted away a bit, his eyebrows lifting with interest. "Did you get chicken kickers, too?"

"Yes, I got those weirdo chicken- _like_ nugget things." He thought about them with a grimace: some kind of substance that was definitely _not_ chicken, deep-fried and glazed with tangy, practically neon-colored grease. "I'll eat them, but I may throw up on you."

"Mmm, Bones, you're too good to me," Jim smirked, smiling as he closed his eyes again. Len bristled slightly, in response to both the sleep-sated honey coating to Jim's voice and that damned nickname—he'd been calling Len "Bones" for a couple of weeks now and he still wasn't sure how he felt about it. It started after Len demonstrated his deboning abilities on a catfish to the rest of their class, getting the task done in record time and with perfect precision—he'd gone fishing a lot with his grandfather when he was a boy. But every time Jim said it, he got this wistful look on his face, like there was something more to the moniker than just a skilled hand with seafood. It left Len at a loss.

"Damn it, Jim, I told you not to call me that," he sighed. "Now, come on; I've got half a pepperoni pie with your name on it."

"Think there's any beer left?" Jim asked, sitting up and extricating himself from the tangle of Len's bed sheets. They were both pleasantly surprised to find a brand new six-pack in the fridge.

*

Forty minutes later, Jim propped his feet on the coffee table, trying to get as comfortable as he could on their rather cheap IKEA sofa, stained napkin still tucked into the collar of his T-shirt. He picked up his third beer, making a noise of contentment when he heard the satisfying, cool hiss of the can's mouth popping open.

"God, I fucking love Domino's," he commented. Len grunted faintly and flicked through television channels, idly gnawing on his last slice of pizza. Jim perked up when he got to a crime procedural show, gesturing at Len to stop. "This is good, this is good."

"This sucks," Len countered, but he stopped browsing, as requested, and put the remote down.

"What's so sucky about it?"

"They never get the medical stuff right on these shows." Len squinted, picking a piece of pepperoni off his slice and eating it alone. "I mean, there's no _way_ they can do stuff like this...the technology's just not there."

Jim tilted his head back on the rather sturdy cushion, peering over at him. "How do you know? Maybe they do. You weren't studying to be in CSI or to work at a morgue."

"No, I was studying to help live people keep living. A lot more fun in that."

"This looks fun," Jim said, shrugging. Len happened to look over just as he finished a sip of beer and licked his lips. "See, picture it. There's some random dead guy and no one can figure out what happened to him and his family's devastated, until _you_ come along and do some freaky scientific magic, and then boom: case closed, family avenged, cold-blooded killer in jail. All because you've got the mad crime-solving skills."

"I think all the nitrates have destroyed your brain cells," Len replied, flatly.

"If keeping my brain cells means no more Domino's, then who needs 'em."

"Not you, wonder boy."

They sat like that for a while, finishing off the last of the food and the beer, sinking further into a fast-food stupor. It was comfortable, though, as all their quiet moments were, and Len enjoyed it as much as he could, knowing said moments were rare with Jim Kirk's big mouth around. After a while, one of them shifted somehow and they ended up touching shoulders on the couch. Len only tensed for a second before he told himself it was okay—just as okay as it was to have Jim asleep beside him in his bed, though they didn't touch there, not beyond the occasional morning when Len woke up with Jim's arm slung around his middle. And that wasn't bothersome or strange, so much as it was...nice.

Len looked over at him during a commercial for potato chips or cars or something, speaking only when Jim realized he was being watched. "So," he said.

"Something wrong?" Jim asked, cocking his head.

"No, just..." He shrugged, searching for the right way to bring it up. "I spoke to Jocelyn today. On my way home."

"Oh. Right." Jim nodded faintly, the line of his mouth visibly tensing at the mention of Len's ex-wife. "My buddy, Joce. How was that, then?"

"It was...good, actually." Len nodded to himself, twirling his pizza crust between his fingers nervously. It made him even more nervous that he was nervous because he had no idea why he was nervous. "She asked me if I wouldn't mind Joanna coming up here and spending Thanksgiving with me, since she'll be out of town for work, and...I wanted to run it by you, see what you thought."

"Really? Joanna?" Jim seemed to light up somewhat at the idea and that alone was a relief to Len. But then his expression turned serious. "Well, you know what that means, don't you?"

"No, what?"

Jim smiled easily at him. "We have to scrap my original plan of turkey sandwiches and forties and make the most delicious Thanksgiving dinner ever."

Len laughed, but kept an incredulous look on his face. "That was your plan. Turkey clubs and forties of Coors Light." He held up his half-empty beer can for emphasis. Jim shook his head.

"Heineken. It's a special occasion."

"You're a class act," Len said, snorting. He took a pull from his beer and then looked back at the TV. "Well, good. I'm glad you're okay with it because I already said yes."

"Why wouldn't I be? She's your _daughter_ , Bones—I'm dying to meet her." Jim paused then, worry lines creasing their way across his forehead. "Do you think she'll like me?" he asked. Len barked out a laugh and shoved his shoulder playfully. It wasn't fair when Jim was being so cute; it made Len want to cut him a break when he really deserved to be taunted and derided.

"I think the chances are good, seeing as how she asked the same thing about you."

"Oh, good. So I'm not the only one shaking in anticipation." Jim grinned at him and when Len realized that he was being sincere, he felt his heart thump a little heavier in his chest. He had to work to pay attention to what Jim was saying next. "Is it just gonna be the three of us, then? Maybe we should invite some of the other people from school who can't make it home. Like Kevin or Uhura."

"Maybe," Len said, shrugging. He thought Riley was kind of a pissant, even though Jim seemed to like the guy, but Uhura was a great girl—a damn good cook with lots of ambition, who moved around the kitchen like she had a fire going under her behind. She had a serious work ethic, too, making sure that practically no one in school besides the instructors knew her given name, insisting she be called "Uhura" at all times. Also, she seemed to loathe Jim, which Len couldn't blame her for one bit, seeing the way he shamelessly flirted with her. It was both kind of tragic and heartwarming that Jim wanted to invite her over for Thanksgiving dinner. "We can talk more about it," he said.

"Either way, it'll be a real, honest-to-god Thanksgiving."

Jim nodded sharply and once again, Len was reminded of Joanna. He reached over and ruffled Jim's hair, letting his hand linger a bit in the thick, dark blond tufts. In a few hours time, they'd give up the ghost, turn off the TV and head to bed, Jim slinking under the covers behind Len as he turned off the light. And when Len awoke the next morning, he'd find he was the one hugging Jim around his waist for once, his nose pressed to the kid's hair, inhaling the very same scent that permeated all his dreams.

For now, he simply chucked Jim's shoulder lightly and took a moment to drain the last of his beer. "Whatever you say, Jimmy," Len conceded, smirking at his infectious enthusiasm. "I'll even let you plan the menu, wonder boy."

"I was already counting on it," Jim said. He looked smug as he rolled his shoulders and drank some more, turning his attention back to the TV screen.

 

IX.

Spock wakes for the second time to the flowery scent of Nyota's hair, long and silken as it spills over her neck and shoulders. It's still rather early, but Spock always has trouble staying in bed past ten o'clock, so he extracts himself from their embrace with a small kiss to her shoulder, moving carefully off the bed so as not to disturb her.

He maintains a steadfast morning ritual when he's in his own apartment, down in the Lower East Side. He lives on Orchard Street in a one bedroom purchased years ago by his late uncle, passed down to Spock when he moved away from home. He finds the neighborhood noisy but comforting; his building is surrounded by an eclectic mix of mom-and-pop stores, French bistros, vintage clothing boutiques and hipster night clubs. Every morning, he rises and takes a quick shower, then gets dressed and goes downstairs to buy a newspaper that he can read over breakfast. He typically makes himself something small but filling—instant oatmeal with fruit or scrambled eggs and toast—but once in a while, he treats himself to breakfast at one of the local vegetarian cafés, dividing his time between reading his paper and watching both the locals and tourists go about their business.

Today, however, he's at Nyota's apartment and therefore much closer to the restaurant, so he can be leisurely. Spock heads to the dresser on the other side of Nyota's bedroom and opens the drawer she's reserved for him, finding a T-shirt and a fresh pair of boxer shorts, pulling them on. He pads into the kitchen, then, and sets to work on preparing breakfast for both of them, using the French press to make coffee. Spock knows he's not a master chef by any means, especially not compared to a culinary genius such as Nyota, but he's learned quite a bit about cooking from her and the other Enterprise chefs. Jim, especially, has always been most eager to teach him a few tricks. Also, Nyota always keeps a well-stocked refrigerator, full of fresh, organic produce and frozen products that come in handy for impromptu breakfasts.

Spock is busy working on French toast when Nyota pads into the kitchen, wearing his shirt from the night before. She leans against the kitchen island and watches him with a tilt of her head and a warm smile, her hair slightly mussed. The shirt completely overwhelms her small frame; the sleeves are too long and the hem comes down to the tops of her knees. Spock's breath catches when he looks at her and he nearly drops the spatula in his hand.

"Good morning, Nyota," he says, nodding to her. "You look quite...fetching."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Spock," she drawls, strolling over to him. She wraps her arms around his waist and tilts her face up for a kiss, which he gladly supplies. "Good morning to you, too," she murmurs.

Spock kisses her again and tucks his nose against her soft cheek. "Did you sleep well?"

"I always do when you're here. What about you?"

"It was exemplary rest." He motions with his spatula to the French toast cooking in the pan. "I hope you do not mind that I used your challah bread."

"That's what it's there for." She smiles and shrugs, then rubs his back with an appreciative sound. "Though you know you never have to make breakfast for me."

"Nonsense. It is your job to cook every night; the least I can do is to alleviate your duties in the kitchen when they're simply unnecessary."

"But I like to cook." Nyota gives him a teasing smile and goes to fetch the powdered sugar as he dishes the French toast onto two plates that already hold small piles of sliced, beautifully ripe strawberries. She comes back to his side, bouncing on her toes. "At least let me sugar your toast," she says. He gives her a wry smile.

"Nyota, you are always welcome to sugar my toast."

She giggles and kisses him one more time, lingering against his body before she coats the challah pieces with a generous dusting of white. He watches her fondly as she follows it up with an equally generous drizzle of maple syrup.

Spock isn't especially fond of eating anything in bed, considering the inevitable crumbs that follow, but Nyota finds it romantic, so he follows her back to the bedroom. She curls up under the covers and he sits beside her, placing the trays of food and coffee over their laps. They eat with a morning talk show on the television in the background, and Spock opens his mouth for the occasional bite of food that Nyota offers him, perched on her fork. He watches her as she watches the TV screen, happy to listen to whatever drivel the group of women there are currently discussing. He's never been with a woman quite like Nyota, so devoted to her creature comforts yet motivated and committed to a rigorous schedule; an old-fashioned romantic but far from cloying in her needs and emotions.

She makes his life less...routine.

They make love in the shower once Nyota's program is over. Spock presses her slim, supple body against the tiles and chases every droplet of water that falls over her shoulders with his lips. She touches his ears and he lets out a low growl against her neck—Nyota knows all too well how sensitive the pointed tips are and therefore can never seem to stop toying with them. If Spock minded at all, he would let her know; as is, he simply rolls his hips faster, angling to push deeper into Nyota and sliding her body further up along the wall. She clings to him, her rounded fingernails leaving curved marks along the pale skin of his back, her heels digging against the swell of his buttocks. Spock laves his tongue along her neck, licking at the clear rivulets of water running down to her clavicle. It seems like there's not enough time in the world to touch and taste every inch of skin that he wants to explore. Her orgasm takes him by surprise, swift and demanding in strength, and he only manages a few more thrusts before he's releasing as well, shivering beneath her steady palm laid gently and protectively over his nape.

They stay like that for a while, eyes closed as they rest against each other. Soon, Spock will have to leave the warm shower and the apartment, get dressed in a suit and head over to the restaurant for a busy day, followed soon after by Nyota for her daily prep. Neither of them minds the daily grind that's mapped out for them—the restaurant is like a home away from home, in many ways. But for now, Spock can't imagine leaving Nyota's comforting embrace, still buried to the hilt inside her. He drags his lips along her shoulder and gazes at the cloudy glass of the stall, the surrounding air dense with thick, billowing fog.

As soon as Spock arrives at Enterprise, about an hour later, he heads to the small office Pike has provided him in the back, kept immaculately neat at all times. In addition to front-of-the-house duties, Pike has also bestowed a number of managerial tasks upon him, mostly because Spock is highly organized and Pike has quite a bit of culinary celebrity to maintain, beyond taking care of the restaurant. He's always making appearances at food festivals, conferences and sometimes, Food Network programs. Spock takes a seat at his desk and gets to work on reviewing the menu and specials for the evening, as well as the accumulated list of reservations. He's only there for a few minutes before Jim pops his head into the doorway.

"Hey, Spock," he says, flashing the broad smile that's become his signature over time. "Have some lunch with me."

Spock lifts his head from his paperwork and raises one pointed brow. His unusual ears and eyebrows are both family traits, passed down from generation to generation, explained away to him as having to do with a multiethnic background. Though the features led to a fair bit of teasing back when he was a child, Nyota is always quick to assure him that they make him look intriguing and mysterious. It doesn't stop Jim's partner, Chef McCoy, from often referring to him as a "pointy-eared bastard" when Spock keeps him from getting his way.

"Jim," he answers, nodding politely. "Thank you, but I have already eaten a large breakfast this morning and remain quite satisfied."

"Well, you can watch me eat, then."

Jim takes it upon himself to enter the office and sit down in the foldout chair in front of Spock's desk, pulling a pastrami sandwich and knish from a brown paper bag and tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. Spock blinks in surprise at the meal and looks on with interest; Jim pauses in spreading mustard all over the rye bread when he feels Spock's eyes on him.

"Did you want half?"

"Though it does smell delicious, I'm quite full." He tilts his head slightly. "I'm not positive that I have ever seen you consume delicatessen food."

Jim laughs and shakes his head. "Oh, man. I _love_ this stuff. You can't get any of this in the Midwest. You're Jewish, right?" Jim pauses only momentarily as he reaches into the paper bag for a can of Cel-Ray soda and a half-sour pickle, wrapped in plastic. He shrugs and continues when Spock only arches a brow again in response. "Well, you live right near Katz's anyway, so you know."

"I find Katz's to be a noisy, overpriced tourist trap, but I admit that their pastrami is unparalleled."

"This is from Second Avenue Deli. We're making Chekov do newbie things for us, so we sent him there an hour ago to get everyone lunch." He takes a large bite of the sandwich and flickers his eyes up at Spock, speaking as he chews. "I took the orders at the bar last night, so there's an order of stuffed cabbage waiting for Uhura when she gets here."

Spock presses his lips together and breathes out through his nostrils, pointedly ignoring Jim's comment as he shuffles papers. He finds Jim's habit of speaking with his mouth full rather distasteful as well. "And how did Mr. Chekov find his first night in the Enterprise kitchen?"

"A little daunting, I think, but he did well, considering. Bones didn't exactly take it easy on him when he made mistakes. But by the time we got to the bar, he seemed pretty happy and relaxed. Couldn't stop talking to Sulu for a second. Bones dragged me home before I could stick around to see what went down, though."

"Jim, your propensity and penchant for gossip amongst your peers is highly illogical, given that you are the head chef of this restaurant."

"Speaking of gossip, I saw you leave the bar with Uhura last night." Jim leans back in the creaky metal chair, snapping his teeth into his pickle and chewing with a grin. "What's up with _that_ , huh?"

Spock manages to suppress a noise of frustration, merely diverting his eyes. Jim's insistent curiosity has never failed to annoy him at the best of times, and it makes him think back to their first meeting, after Spock was handpicked by Christopher Pike to serve as the maitre d' at Enterprise, his new venture. He still recalls Pike walking him down the hall of the restaurant to his office, where the "freshest, most talented chef out of Starfleet Culinary Academy" was presumably waiting to meet him. Spock entered the office and came face to face with a smirking young man who looked no more than twenty-five years old, slouched in a chair with his legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles. "Face to face" was perhaps the wrong phrase, however, given that half of his visage was covered by the apple upon which he noisily snacked.

"So, you're the fancy-pants maitre d', huh? Jim Kirk," he said, extending the hand to Spock that wasn't occupied with the fruit.

"I am Spock."

They shook hands and Spock saw Pike out of the corner of his eye, leaning against the doorframe and smirking in amusement, as though he knew pairing the two men together was asking for trouble.

"Spock what?" Jim asked, taking another loud bite of the apple. "Or do you take after Madonna?" Spock gave him an odd look and clasped his hands behind his back, straightening up.

"I have been told that my surname is rather difficult to pronounce and therefore, my given name will suffice."

"No shit. Come on, I bet I can say it. Here." Jim grabbed a post-it note from Pike's desk as well as a pen and handed them both to Spock, nodding. "Write it down for me."

Spock exchanged a quick glance with Pike, who seemed to be smothering his laughter with his palm by now, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. Somewhat discomfited, Spock took the offered items and set about jotting down his name. He handed it back to Jim with a nod and almost smirked himself when Jim looked down at the post-it and boggled at the name there, his blue eyes wide with disbelief.

"Okay...you win. I have _no_ idea how to say that. Where the hell are you from, anyway?"

"All over," Spock replied, a bit sourly. Jim's brutal honesty and direct line of questioning were not what he was accustomed to, and he found himself fighting the urge to sink to the same level and respond as rudely as Jim did. "I take it that you hail from some sort of barn, Mr. Kirk."

"Okay, wow." Jim stood then, crossing the room and nodding to Pike. "You were right about the stick up his ass, but I guess that's what working at the front of the house is all about, right? I'm sure this is the start of a beautiful friendship, Spock."

He slapped Spock's shoulder hard as he exited the office, causing him to jerk and frown with extreme displeasure. No, he was not a fan of Jim Kirk. He assumed then that he never would be.

As it turned out, however, James T. Kirk was an exceptionally gifted chef and Pike had not gone astray in trusting him with the kitchen of Enterprise. He was accompanied by one of the best staffs Spock had ever seen, one that Pike and Kirk worked hand-in-hand in building, including an enigmatic _saucier_ with a smile that made his knees weak. And though they all traded insults regularly and often treated the kitchen like a playground during off-hours, it was obvious that they held Jim Kirk in the highest esteem and considered him their leader without question. Over time, Spock learned to respect the brash, young gourmet and Jim's premonition about a friendship came true. He was even there for Spock during a time of personal crisis, though Spock didn't care to reflect upon that often, beyond Jim's surprisingly heartfelt compassion.

Spock sighs, nudging the legs of his chair closer to his desk and watching as Jim inhales the first half of his sandwich, starting on the second with equal gusto. "As I have informed you in the past, my relationship with Chef Uhura is of a purely professional nature. She required accompaniment on the walk back to her apartment and I provided that service to her as nothing more than a colleague and a friend."

Jim smiles wryly, dabbing at some mustard on his upper lip with one of the paper napkins in the bag. "You really like her, huh?"

"I..." Spock hesitates, darting his eyes down to his desk again, unable to look Jim in those ridiculously blue eyes of his. They seem to see everything, sometimes. He feels his shoulders slump in the face of Jim's intuition, words coming to life on his tongue that have lurked there for months. "I might possess a certain amount of...affection for her."

"She's a pistol," Jim simply says, seemingly unfazed by the admission. Spock blinks and waits for some kind of mockery or victory dance, but it never comes. Jim breaks his knish in half, steam rising from the cooked potato inside, and slurps his soda, shrugging. "You're a lucky guy, Spock. Uhura's never given me the time of day, not even back when I wasn't with Bones. She must see something pretty damn special in you."

"I see something special in her," he replies quietly. "I implore you, Jim; do not spread gossip about my relationship with Nyota. It is extremely important to us that we remain inconspicuous. She does not enjoy the attention and neither do I."

"Oh, so she's 'Nyota' now, huh?" Jim gives him a teasing smile and then shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. "My lips are sealed, Spock. You have my word on that."

Spock nods faintly. If he knows anything about Jim, it's that he's true to his word.

Just then, Nyota barges into the room, a bag in one hand that smells of stuffed cabbage, and a piece of paper with next week's schedule in the other. The two men look up at her at once and Spock barely has a moment to appreciate how beautiful she looks before she goes off on him, all guns blazing.

"What the fuck is _this_?! I need next Tuesday off, Spock; I _told_ you that."

"Good morning, Nyota. A pleasure as always," Jim chirps.

"Shut up, Jim," she barks, marching over to Spock's desk and slamming the paper down on his desk. He purses his lips, wishing Pike didn't always pass off scheduling on him. "I have a family gathering next Tuesday and I need that night off. Get Riley to fill in."

"Chef Uhura," Spock begins, looking over his own copy of the schedule. "I was unable to provide you with that night off, due to a number of conflicts with the rest of the kitchen staff. It would be my pleasure to perhaps discuss an alternative solution with—"

"I have _Tuesday_ night off," she snaps, her large eyes shooting daggers at him. Spock pauses to mentally assess his options and then clicks the top of his pen, crossing out her name on the schedule.

"Yes, I believe you do."

"Thank you," Nyota says primly. She turns her nose up at Jim as she strides out of the office. Jim, to his credit, waits a good thirty seconds or so before bursting into a long stretch of entirely expected laughter.

" _Whipped_ ," he states, shaking his head and guffawing. Spock grunts and reaches forward to take the other half of Jim's knish, eating it somewhat moodily. Jim just grins at him. "Good, right? I told you."

"Similar to the ones my mother used to make," Spock murmurs.

"See, I knew you were Jewish."

Spock exhales and adjusts his tie as he makes the futile attempt to get back to work.

 

X.

Pavel helps his mother set the table for lunch, folding three paper napkins and placing them in their proper places on the dining room table, along with knives and spoons. It's his first proper day off since starting at Enterprise and his mother was kind enough to let him sleep until half-past noon or so, though she refuses to deviate from the lunch she's already planned in favor of breakfast food for Pavel. So, he's about to have borscht for breakfast, but he's sure he's eaten stranger things upon waking before.

Marta flits around the kitchen, humming to herself and pouring the borscht into bowls for herself, Pavel and Andrei. She's been pestering Pavel for a chance to sit down and hear more about his new, fancy job all week, and though she was hoping for a family dinner, he had to beg off and request they do lunch instead.

Tonight, he actually has a _date_. With Hikaru Sulu. Sort of.

"All right, all right, I'm starving," Andrei says in Russian, coming into the dining room with his Russian-language newspaper tucked under one arm. He sits down in his usual chair and places his napkin in his lap. "Marta, where's lunch?"

"It's coming, if you'll just wait a second." Marta enters the room and places one bowl of brightly colored soup in front of Andrei, then another by Pavel's place setting. He's still standing, so she pats his shoulder and motions to his chair. "Pasha, please, sit down. The borscht will go cold."

"Mama, let me help at least, if I can't cook..."

"Cook! Why cook? You cook all day and all night at that job now; you deserve a rest on your day off!"

Pavel sighs and takes a seat as Marta runs back inside the kitchen, returning with her own bowl of borscht and containers of butter and sour cream. Andrei reaches to open the sour cream immediately, spooning a large dollop into his bowl, and Marta reaches across the table to smack his hand before she sits down.

"Save some for the rest of us, Andrei."

Pavel snickers as his father makes a noise of displeasure, reaching for a piece of bread to dunk into his soup. He takes a bite and feels instantly comforted by the familiar taste; as much as he loves to cook on his own, there's something extra satisfying about a meal prepared by his mother. Her food always tastes just as good to his tongue, if not better.

"Delicious, Mama," he says, taking some sour cream for himself. Marta beams at him and reaches over to sweep her thumb across his cheek.

"I'm humbled to get a compliment from such an important chef," she says.

"Mama." Pavel blushes, stirring his spoon around in his borscht. "You know I've always loved your cooking."

"I know. I'm just proud of you, Pasha." She nudges Andrei's leg under the table and he sighs, looking up from his meal. "We both are, right, Andrei?"

"Well, of course I'm proud of him. He's teaching all those fancy restaurant snobs how to cook like a real chef! The Russian way."

"They're not really snobs, Papa. They're nice people. I like them."

"Tell us about them," Marta cajoles, taking a piece of bread for herself and buttering it. "Did you ever find out the name of the strange Scottish man?"

"His name is Montgomery Scott, but everyone calls him Scotty. He's the pastry chef." Pavel tilts his head thoughtfully, putting his spoon down as he counts staff members off on his fingers. "Then, there are Kirk and Mr. Pike, Hikaru Sulu, the head server, and Mr. Spock, the maitre d'...I still can't figure out where he's from. Then Chef McCoy, who is very grouchy and irritable, and Chef Uhura, the _saucier_ who I work under."

Andrei nods along, gulping a mouthful of borscht. "And what is he like, this Uhura?"

"Chef Uhura is a woman, Papa. Very talented and—"

"A _woman_?!" he exclaims in disbelief. "How is a woman supposed to teach you anything useful?" Marta scowls at that, reaching across the table to smack her husband again.

"And who do you think prepared your lunch, idiot? That's all Pasha needs, to take after your sexist way of thinking."

Pavel winces in sympathy at the smack, then smiles slightly. "Chef Uhura is one of the most talented chefs I've ever met. It's not just the food she prepares, but the way she handles herself in the kitchen. She's extremely graceful and dignified."

"Hmph," Andrei says, knowing he's lost the battle. He nods to Pavel. "Who else, then? Any other women?"

"Many women. There's the _rotisseur_ , Chef Gaila, and the pantry chef, Chef Chapel...Janice Rand, the expediter..."

"Any of them good-looking?" Andrei asks. Marta throws her spoon into her bowl with a clatter, giving him a furious and incredulous look, and he spreads his hands out innocently. "What? I can't ask if they're good-looking? Maybe Pasha might like to go after one of them? He didn't meet any girls in that fancy culinary school that cost so much money. So much—you'd think they could put some pretty girls in the classes."

Pavel and Marta exchange a quiet, strained glance before he looks down into his bowl. He came out to his mother a couple of years ago, explaining to her quietly one night after dinner, when they were alone in the kitchen together, that he felt things for men he had never experienced when it came to women. He'd been so worried that she would think it wrong or disgraceful—he knew well enough from his dealings with his friends and father that staunch heterosexuality was an important part of fitting into their culture—but Marta was infinitely kind, explaining to her son that he was a man now, and surely a man capable of making his own decisions about who deserved his love. She bemoaned her shattered dreams of grandchildren for only a minute before she hugged him tightly, kissed his forehead and told him she was proud of him for sharing his secret.

"But let's wait to tell your father," she said, shrugging apologetically. "Until you meet someone, that is." Pavel didn't really mind; the longer he could put off that awkward and potentially disastrous conversation, the better.

"Andrei," his mother says warningly now. "Leave him alone. He's only just started at the restaurant; he has to concentrate on his career. And he's so young, still. All you want is for him to get married and leave us alone to grow wrinkled and old."

"I'm just making conversation," Andrei protests weakly. He exhales in defeat and Pavel takes pity on him, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

"If I meet someone, I'll let you know when the time comes, Papa."

"All right, I know," Andrei says, looking grateful for the support. Pavel nods and smiles to both of his parents, then returns to his soup, blowing on a spoonful. He has no idea if he'll actually be brave enough to keep that promise, but he's safe for the time being.

After lunch is over, Pavel retreats to his bedroom and curls up on the bed, looking through the contacts on his phone for Hikaru's number. They have yet to make actual arrangements for the evening, seeing as how it's probably not a real date. Hikaru brought up the idea the other night after Spock released the week's schedule and it was revealed that they both had the same day off. The chance for even a single day of vacation is a huge relief; Kirk and the Enterprise staff have been throwing every "newbie" task and responsibility at him that they can think of, from helping Keenser with the dishes to washing vegetables for prep and even running halfway across town at a moment's notice to fetch deli sandwiches and knishes for everyone.

The truth is, Pavel's exhausted and could use an entire day of sleep, at this rate. But when Hikaru turned to him the other night and said, "Hey, we both have Thursday off—we should hang out, maybe," Pavel couldn't help the immediate "yes" that sprang from his mouth, curls bouncing as he nodded eagerly, until he forced himself to stop.

So, they're meant to "hang out" somewhere tonight and it's so casual that Pavel has no idea where he's supposed to go or when he's supposed to get there. His phone beeps with text messages from Misha, asking when he'll be around for a night of Xbox and vodka, but he ignores them, pulling up Hikaru's number and placing the call. It rings for a long time and Pavel doesn't remember to be properly nervous until someone picks up. It's definitely not Hikaru on the other end, though.

"Helloooo?" the voice says, slightly breathless. Pavel blinks in confusion for a moment, then laughs when he recalls the voice.

"Hello. Is this Gaila?" he asks, idly scratching the back of his neck.

"Yes! Is this Chekov? Hi, Chekov!" She sounds so cheerful that Pavel can't help but break out into a grin, shaking his head.

"You should call me Pavel when we are not at work. Please, I would prefer that."

"Oh, okay. Uhura's the only one who cares about that sort of thing anyway," Gaila says.

There's noise coming from the background that Pavel can't quite make out, but it sounds like a voice of protest. Gaila suddenly squeaks, then, and the voice gets a little louder, until Pavel distinctly hears _Gimme back the fucking phone, G!_ His eyes go wide and he laughs awkwardly, listening to the rustling sounds that he can only assume are Hikaru and Gaila wrestling for the phone. Pavel knows the two of them are roommates but he can't help but wonder now if they're more than that. He certainly hopes not; the idea makes him feel a little warm and nauseated.

"Karu!" Gaila shouts. Pavel leans away from the speaker of the phone, returning when he hears laughter. "Okay, okay, Pavel—Karu's here now. I'll put him on, okay?"

"Okay, Gaila. Thank you."

"Enjoy your night off," she adds, her tone slightly mocking, though not in a vicious way. Pavel wrinkles his nose and exhales; he's about to thank her again when he hears the phone already being handed off, Gaila saying something that definitely ends with the word _lover_ , and he's suddenly blushing brightly. But then Hikaru takes the phone, grumbling under his breath as he does, and Pavel instantly feels less embarrassed knowing that Hikaru is embarrassed, too—not to mention the fact that Gaila seems to be teasing him about Pavel being his _lover_. That has to be a good sign.

"Jesus, I'm so sorry," he says immediately. "We were in the other room and I tried to beat her in here to pick it up, but—"

"It is not a problem, Hikaru." He shakes his head and smiles. "Gaila is very, ah...excitable, _da_?"

"That's one way of putting it. Anyway...hi!" Hikaru laughs then, and Pavel's smile seems to grow impossibly bigger. "What's up? Enjoying your first day off?"

"I am, very much. It was a pleasure to sleep in this morning. I didn't quite know how tired I really was. All that errand running, you know?"

"Yeah, Kirk can be pretty brutal like that. I think he and the other chefs view it as a sort of hazing ritual."

"Hazing?" Pavel repeats. He's never heard of the term.

"Yeah, like...initiation," Hikaru clarifies. "Like, you can't be in the club until you bust your butt doing inane things for them. Though, I have to admit, sending you to get that deli food was kind of inspired. That was the best corned beef sandwich I've ever had."

Pavel laughs easily, lying back to rest on his bed. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, Hikaru. It was seasoned with my sweat and tears."

"Well, your sweat is delicious, then." Pavel reddens immediately at the statement and Hikaru also seems to realize he's said something off-color, because he clears his throat loudly and jumps to change the subject. "Um...so, hey, are we still on for tonight?"

"Yes, definitely," he says, feeling relieved. "What would you like to do?"

"Something cheap would probably be best. I just sent in my student loan payment so my checking account's sort of wrecked for a week. I was thinking...do you like Chinese dumplings? There's a great place in the East Village, not too expensive and right near Tompkins Square Park...also a lot of cafes and stuff, if we wanted to go somewhere else after that. And a movie theater."

"That sounds nice." Pavel squirms a little, unable to help a bright smile from blossoming on his face. In his estimation, "hanging out" means doing things like getting drunk or watching television with takeout food; dinner followed by a walk in the park or a movie definitely sounds more like a _date_. "What time shall we meet?"

"Well, what works for you? Six? Seven?"

"Seven is good."

"Okay. So, let's meet by the big cube at Astor Place at seven and then we can walk over there together. Sound good?"

"Yes, very good," Pavel says, trying not to sound as thrilled as he feels. He looks at the clock and exhales when he sees it's only a quarter to two. At least he'll have time to pick out something nice to wear. "I will see you then, Hikaru."

"See you then, Pavel. Bye."

"Goodbye."

Pavel hangs up and takes a deep breath, tossing the phone aside and dropping his arms to rest over his head. Hikaru definitely sounded like he was smiling on his end and the thought that he might be excited to see Pavel is going to keep a goofy grin on his own face for the rest of the afternoon. He idly wonders if Gaila is already back by Hikaru's side, demanding to know everything about the phone call—if so, Pavel imagines he'll be leaving out the "delicious sweat" quip.

When he finally gets to Astor Place, almost fifteen minutes late, he sees Hikaru already standing there, hands stuffed into the pockets of his green and yellow tracksuit jacket as he waits. Pavel runs across the street to greet him, not bothering to check if the light's in his favor.

"Hikaru!" he calls as he approaches. The other man straightens up with a broad smile, offering him a wave. Pavel cuts him off before he can speak, apologizing breathlessly. "I am so sorry I'm late... The trains, they gave me trouble...I live very far away, and—"

"Fucking MTA, right?" Hikaru interjects, smirking. Pavel recognizes the sentiment from the night they first crossed paths and he lets out a genuine laugh, nodding. "No worries, man. I wasn't even waiting that long."

"Okay, good." Pavel catches his breath and they regard each other awkwardly for a moment; he isn't sure whether they're meant to hug in greeting or perhaps shake hands...kissing hello certainly seems out of the question. After a few seconds, Hikaru just lightly pats his back and Pavel smiles to him, glad that's out of the way. "You must be hungry for your dumplings by this time," he says.

"Yeah, they sound pretty great right about now. Ready to go, then?"

"Please, lead the way."

The dumpling restaurant is small and narrow. They peruse the large, colorful menu hanging on the wall and Pavel decides on a mix of vegetable and pork dumplings, all steamed; Hikaru chooses all pork, half of them steamed and the other half seared. Pavel considers the array of exotic-looking Japanese drinks, but he's worried about potentially embarrassing himself in front of Hikaru if he doesn't like it; he ends up getting a Coke instead and is secretly pleased when Hikaru orders a Coke as well.

They sit shoulder to shoulder at the sidebar by the kitchen as they eat, in front of the glass wall that protects the giant steamers, chatting amiably about how they spent their days off. Pavel notices that Hikaru handles his chopsticks with a skill and agility that likely comes from years of practice—one that Pavel simply doesn't possess, try as he might. Still, he manages to get the dumplings from the tray to his mouth, even with a limited amount of finesse.

"How do you like the dumplings? Good, right?" Hikaru asks, sipping his soda. Pavel dips a vegetable dumpling into his soy sauce and takes a bite, giving a thumbs up as he chews.

"Very good. You cannot go wrong with dumplings, I find. They're like a perfect food."

Hikaru nudges their shoulders together and smiles. "I bet you make amazing pierogi."

"I use an old Chekov family recipe," Pavel says, blushing faintly. He shrugs the shoulder that Hikaru didn't touch. "Dumplings were invented in Russia, you know."

"What?" Hikaru's brow goes sky-high and he laughs, but it's not mocking or cruel, just light and fond. "How do you know that for sure?"

"All of the best things were invented in Russia!"

"Oh, yeah? What about pizza? Pizza is awesome and that wasn't invented in Russia."

Pavel tilts his head thoughtfully. "Well, not the kind you would order at a pizzeria, but we do have _khachapuri_ , which is very similar in that it—"

"Okay, okay—I can already see you're going to have an answer for everything, so I'll quit while I'm ahead." Hikaru laughs again and Pavel smiles shyly, stirring the ends of his chopsticks in his soy sauce.

"Sorry, I know I can be smart-mouthed— _sassy_ , I think Kirk called it. I am like my father in that way."

"Your father, yeah?" He dabs at his mouth with a napkin and watches Pavel eat his last dumpling. "You still live with him, right? What's he like?"

"Well...he can be a bit old-fashioned and set in his ways. But he has always been nothing but supportive of my dreams and goals."

"Well, that's all that you can ask for, really," Hikaru replies quietly, and he looks so far away for a moment that a million questions gather on the tip of Pavel's tongue. He doesn't ask a single one, though—just gathers his garbage on his tray and stands up.

"Why don't we go for that walk in the park?"

"Yeah, okay," Hikaru says, nodding and getting to his feet as well.

The sun is already lost behind the trees as they walk through the park. Hikaru regales Pavel with stories about the restaurant and its motley crew of characters, filling him in on all the sordid details—like Janice Rand's alarming addiction to Diet Coke (they're all fairly sure it's replaced her life's blood by now) and Scotty's obsession with the state-of-the-art private ovens that Pike acquired for him. There seems to be an arsenal of embarrassing anecdotes that Pavel is positive none of the staff would want him to know. He loves hearing them, though—they make his new coworkers seem all the more human.

Pavel steers them toward a deserted bench just as Hikaru is finishing up a tale about Chefs Kirk and McCoy getting caught in the act in the main storage room by Cupcake, their large and burly staff butcher. Pavel has no idea why everyone calls him Cupcake; Kirk introduced him that way and it seemed that the man was by now fairly accustomed to the nickname.

"So, Cupcake kicks the door open, holding this massive beef flank, right? And Kirk is just standing there, holding onto a metal storage rack...with his pants around his ankles! And McCoy's in front of him, shirtless and holding a bottle of chocolate sauce!" Hikaru slaps his knee, in hysterics as he tells the story; Pavel already adores the way he throws himself into his laughter. "I swear—I've never heard a man scream like that in my _life_."

"Kirk?" Pavel asks, grinning.

"No, Cupcake!"

Pavel joins in the laughter, snorting into his palm. "I did not even realize they were a couple," he says, still giggling. "But that makes sense."

"Yeah, they have been for a few years now. In fact, I'm pretty sure Kirk's the only person in that place who McCoy has a genuine soft spot for. It's kind of cute, actually."

"I wonder how they met," Pavel muses. "It seems that there are many couples at Enterprise—Kirk and McCoy, Mr. Spock and Chef Uhura, perhaps..." He pauses then, already wondering if he'll live to regret the next words out of his mouth. Still, he can't help but ask. "You...and Gaila?"

"What? Oh...no, _no_!" Hikaru blinks and waves his hands rapidly, shaking his head. "No, we're best friends! I mean...we did sleep together. Once. But that was way back when we first met; there's nothing going on between us romantically." He blinks and laughs uneasily, scratching the back of his neck. "It didn't even occur to me that you might think that."

"Well, I wasn't sure, but then today on the phone..."

"Ugh, I'm gonna _kill_ her," Hikaru groans, tilting his head back. "I mean, here I am, asking you out on a _date_ , and then she has to go and be all obnoxious and cutesy and confuse you..."

"Wait—this is a date?" Pavel asks, his heart soaring. He _knew_ it was a date! He can't help the wide smile that stretches his face, even though Hikaru looks completely mortified, squirming beside him on the bench.

"Well, I mean...I know I didn't pay for you, which was shitty of me. But I can next time. I would have, it's just that—"

"I know, your student loans...Hikaru, it's okay, really."

Hikaru squints, running a hand through his hair, which is styled to look tall and spiky today, instead of the slicked, professional style that Pavel has only known up until now. Pavel really likes it. He likes everything about this casual version of Hikaru, out of his usual dress shirt, trousers and bowtie. He likes his sporty track jacket, ripped jeans and the expensive-looking sneakers that he imagines Hikaru must have saved up to buy, the laces tucked in to look like they're barely there at all. Pavel shifts closer, smiling in amusement as Hikaru continues to babble and dig himself into a deeper hole.

"Oh, god...and you didn't even _think_ it was a date. Gaila's right, I am _so bad_ at this stuff. I'm sorry, Pavel; I just wanted to show you a good time. I didn't—"

"You're even cute when you're flustered," he whispers.

"Huh?"

Pavel leans in, then, and kisses him instinctively—a firm but tender press of their mouths that seems to do the trick in shutting him up. Hikaru hesitates at first, but then Pavel tugs lightly on the zipper of his jacket and he comes back to himself, finally returning the kiss. And then it's just light touching and exploring in the pink and gray shadows of the Manhattan dusk, under the protective covering of thousands of darkening leaves.

And it's _perfect_.

"Okay, now it's definitely a date," Hikaru murmurs when they part.

"A date with the handsome man from the street," Pavel whispers. He smiles and adjusts Hikaru's collar. "That is just what I wanted."

"Then we should do it again, some time."

He leans in for another kiss, so entranced by the sight of Hikaru's mouth that he barely remembers to answer him. " _Da_."

 

XI.

"Oh, Bones, come _on_ ," Jim huffed. He stopped in the middle of the canned food aisle and reached into the shopping cart, pulling out the canned pumpkin. Bones rolled his eyes, waving a hand dismissively, which did nothing to deter him. "We need _real_ pumpkin for the pie. What am I supposed to do with this fake-ass shit?"

"Well, I'm _sorry_ , Jim, but you're not exactly out on the farm anymore."

"I never worked on a farm, _god_." As if he didn't get enough of that crap from Uhura and her constant "farmboy" cracks; he didn't need Bones picking up on it, too. He looked over his ingredient list again, which had to be as long as his two arms combined, and sighed mournfully to himself. "It's just that I want this to be the most kick-ass pumpkin pie ever. And it won't be as fluffy without real pumpkin. Don't you want Joanna to have the fluffiest pie she's ever tasted, Bones? There's gotta be a patch we can visit to go pick one. Like, in Connecticut or something? It'll be more authentic!"

Bones grumbled, taking the can back from Jim and throwing it in the cart again with a loud rattle. "Jim, Joanna's favorite food is Kraft macaroni and cheese, for god's sake. Joce and I can barely get her to eat a carrot on most days, let alone expect her to tell the difference between canned and fresh pumpkin. She won't give a rat's hairy ass _what's_ in the pie as long as it has whipped cream on top, okay?"

"Well, of _course_ it'll have whipped cream," Jim said, looking incredulous. "Handmade maple whipped cream and brown sugar crumble, to be exact."

Bones looked to the heavens again. "She likes Cool Whip," he said. Jim clutched at his chest and gasped in exaggerated horror.

"God, Bones...we have to _teach_ her."

"Jim, I told you to stop calling me that. And you're driving me crazy with this cockamamie Thanksgiving menu. Gimme that thing." He swiped the paper out of Jim's hand and looked it over, shaking his head. "Look at this mess. Ginger walnut cranberry sauce, sweet potato au gratin...bread stuffing with pears, pecans, bacon and caramelized onions—well, that sounds pretty good, actually, but...honestly! Don't you think you're going overboard? What's going to be left for Uhura to bring?"

"I told her to bring a vegetable dish," he said, shrugging. "I was thinking I could make some mulled cider, too. Which I'll keep away from Joanna, don't worry."

Jim walked ahead of him down the aisle, then, searching for other things left on the list. He'd asked Uhura if she wanted to come a week earlier and he'd actually been surprised when she accepted the offer. He figured, the way she acted like a high-society girl with her nose turned up all the time, she had to have a hundred invitations to fancier Thanksgiving gatherings than one with Jim, Bones and his little girl in their scummy Inwood apartment. Turned out her father was a foreign diplomat and though she usually spent the holiday with him somewhere in the Upper East Side, he was going to be away on travel this year, and she wasn't relishing the idea of being alone. Jim couldn't blame her; this was going to be his first Thanksgiving without his mother and his brother Sam, and he already knew he was going to feel off the entire day.

Speaking of his mom, she'd finally come through with some extra spending money. He'd thought he might spend it on rent or maybe some new clothes—he really did need clothes, especially underwear—but here he was, ready to blow the majority of it on the best Thanksgiving meal he could prepare. If he couldn't be back at home, he at least wanted this much.

Also, Uhura was a pretty critical gal and if little Joanna was anything like her, he had his work cut out for him. It seemed no matter what kind of culinary feats Jim managed to pull off in their classes, Uhura was always severely unimpressed. She seemed to like Bones, though; he often tried to sell Jim on the idea that Uhura craved respect because she _was_ high-society and also a woman and the combination meant people might not take her seriously. Jim could understand that—it was true that professional cooking was a male-dominated field, he wasn't blind to that—but it didn't mean that she had to act like she was _better_ than him. She wouldn't even tell him her first name, for christ's sake. And she made it extremely clear that she was mainly coming to dinner because Bones and his daughter would be there. He'd been slightly stung until Uhura lowered her lashes and her defenses a bit, giving him a final, soft-spoken "Thank you, Jim," before taking her leave. He could tell she was grateful to be invited, deep down, and being the one to lift her spirits, just a little bit, sort of made his day. So now he was out to make sure everyone had the Thanksgiving dinner they deserved.

Bones sighed as they turned into the produce aisle, leaning his folded arms against the handlebar of the shopping cart as he watched Jim prod at fruit. "Can't believe I'm standing here, watching you sniff lemons. When did we get so domestic? Feel like I fell asleep somewhere along the line and got married again without knowing it."

"Are you kidding?" Jim laughed, putting a few lemons in a plastic bag. "We've been living on takeout and leftovers ever since school started; we haven't even had time to be _really_ domestic. Though I'll feel bad correcting Joanna if she wants to call me her second daddy. I mean, I wouldn't blame her."

"Ugh, _Jim_..." Bones grunted at him, pulling a stricken face as he pushed the cart away. Jim followed after him, holding his arms out.

"I'll take Uncle Jim! Okay, what if _I_ call you Daddy?"

Bones flipped him off as he went; Jim pouted and then spotted the pears, poking around for good ones. He ended up with four for the bag and one for him, and he took a big, noisy bite as he went to look for Bones again.

*

Jim watched, hands folded behind his back and trying his damnedest not to smirk, as his instructor sampled his panna cotta, dipping the light confection into the spray of raspberry foam he'd provided on the plate. The man—Chef Kobayashi Maru, some guy that Pike talked up all the time as one of the best instructors in the Academy, even though Pike was a superior chef in Jim's eyes—nodded once and put the spoon down again, barely even making eye contact as he moved down the row to the other students.

"Good, Mr. Kirk," he simply said, and then he was sampling something else. Jim frowned slightly at the faint praise, looking down at his half-eaten dish. He'd tasted the damn thing himself; it was light and delicate perfection, not just "good."

Uhura was the one to smirk now, whispering near Jim's ear. "What, upset because he didn't cream his pants? You know Maru's difficult to please. You should be happy he said anything nice at all."

"It was better than 'good,'" Jim whispered back, his shoulders stiffening. He liked Uhura a lot but she sure did love to needle him. "I don't want anything less than an A in Pastry Techniques. I didn't come all the way here not to ace all of my classes."

"Yeah, well, that's what we all want. But Maru's a hard-ass. It's kind of a no-win situation."

"I don't believe in no-win situations," he murmured.

Uhura just arched a delicate brow at that and shrugged, reaching up under her chef's hat to adjust one of the bobby pins in her immaculate bun. Jim knew she preferred to keep it in a ponytail, but most of the instructors, especially Maru, insisted it be kept firmly out of the way of the food. Jim exhaled and watched as Maru made his way down the row of students, assuming various expressions of apathy and disgust. Uhura tilted forward to watch the proceedings as well and they both cringed when an especially sensitive student ran out of the room crying because of whatever Maru muttered after tasting her dish.

"Poor kid," Jim murmured, squinting after her.

"She'll never make it if she doesn't toughen up," Uhura said primly. Jim gave her a dubious glance before his head was turned by something _really_ out of this world: Kobayashi was on the other side of the room, creaming his pants—hopefully not in the literal sense.

"This is...this is _delicious_ ," the man said, looking in disbelief at the scoop of whatever dessert he had in his hand. "What's your name, again?"

"Montgomery Scott, sir," a heavily accented voice cheerfully supplied. Jim furrowed his brow, craning his neck to get a look at the guy. He was all smiles, grinning to the rest of the class as though he'd just won an award. He even waved a little in Jim's direction when he caught him staring. Jim blinked and waved back.

"Do we know that guy?" he whispered to Uhura out of the corner of his mouth.

"That's Scotty. I think he's slept with Gaila once or twice." She looked up at Jim and shrugged. "She said he's a pastry genius. And apparently, it's true."

"You don't say," he mused. Uhura gave him a withering look.

"What," she asked flatly, her hands on her hips. "You're scheming something, aren't you? I swear, Jim. I've known you, what...three months? And I can already read you like a book."

"What kind of book? Erotica? Harlequin romance?" Jim asked as Maru dismissed the class and people began to gather their things. He flashed his brightest smile as he reached for his bag, cocking his hip. "You know, I find it _fascinating_ that you deem me interesting enough to pay such close attention. It's quite flattering, really."

"I don't. You're just that easy." She picked up her own bag and gave him a tight-lipped smile. "And to answer your question: probably horror."

"Why? Do I scare you with my dashing good looks? I can hold you if you're afraid."

Uhura took that moment to roll her eyes and purposely shove past him on her way out. People were always rolling their eyes at him in this city and yet, he always got the last laugh. Jim turned to take one last look at that Scotty guy, then pulled out his phone, sending Gaila a text, asking if she wanted to get together and practice some technique. Maybe that night, around eight-ish?

The answer, unsurprisingly, was a resounding _yes_.

*

By the end of the evening, Jim's face and neck were completely smeared with lipstick and he had a full-fledged IOU for Scotty's banana-rum macadamia flambé recipe. It arrived in his inbox the next morning, along with a note saying that Gaila would be more than happy to do him other "favors" in the future. Jim smirked and remembered how he'd come home the night before to Bones watching late-night talk shows on the sofa and drinking beer. He'd gotten one look at Jim's face and disheveled clothes, muttered, "Ever heard of soap, kid?" and went back to the TV. Jim had just laughed and shrugged it off, but he couldn't help but feel weirdly guilty. He went and slept in his own bed, for once.

That day, he had an exam for Chef Maru's class, which was basically to prepare something that would knock the guy's indifferent socks off. Most people were planning on going relatively safe, making desserts not unlike ones they'd made before. Jim, however, was planning on making that damn flambé. And yeah, he probably should have practiced the technique in advance, but who had time for that? The test was hours away. He knew what he was doing.

A few minutes into his turn and he was backing away from a veritable fireball emanating from his pan, Bones running around in the background yelling, "Damn it, Jim!" as he ran to fetch the fire extinguisher. Uhura was there too, of _course_ , her panic during the height of the fire diminished greatly by the time the stovetop was covered in foam, reduced to quiet laughter into her fist. Jim stepped back and looked at the mess blankly; he idly reached up to make sure his eyebrows hadn't been singed off his face.

So...he wasn't good at everything. Sue him, right?

A few of the students on the other side of the room ran over to see what all the fuss was about, including Scotty, perky and oblivious as ever. "I _like_ this school!" he exclaimed, looking around at the mess. "You know, it's exciting!"

Maru was none too pleased, however, barreling toward Jim with fists shaking in the air. "Kirk! Have you even _practiced_ this technique before? How dare you march into this kitchen and put us all in peril—"

"Whoa, whoa!" Jim stepped back, putting his hands up. "Peril? Everyone was a safe distance away and we've got the fire extinguisher..."

But Maru wasn't having it. He was fuming as he folded his arms across his chest, staring Jim down. "Which you couldn't even retrieve yourself because you were cowering from your own fiery mess. I would think you'd know a thing or two about fire safety, Mr. Kirk, given your background."

Jim froze. The rage barreled through him, as quickly as that damn explosion had billowed up from his flambé, so fast that he had no immediate idea how to express it. Bones was by his side in a second, holding onto Jim's shoulder with a fierce, protective grip. Jim would remember later that even Uhura had looked scandalized at Maru's rude comment. He'd never discussed his past with either of them because it just wasn't something he wanted to talk about. But it wasn't like everyone didn't already know the entire story; it was a page in New York's culinary history by now. Jim knew all too well that just as Uhura had something to prove around this place, so did he. As soon as anyone came upon his name, everything was suddenly at stake.

"Now, see here, Chef," Bones hissed, pointing his long medic's finger at the unflinching instructor. "That was completely out of line, you hear me?"

"Bones," Jim said, cutting him off. Bones let him go, then, and everyone watched silently, waiting for his next words, likely hoping for a dramatic blowout. Jim just squared his shoulders and pursed his lips, nodding once to Maru. "I'm well aware of my 'background,' Chef. It's what inspired me to be here. And I'm working too damn hard to earn my _own_ respect to have to ask for it on my dad's behalf as well. So, if you'll excuse me." He took off his hat, flinging it down on the counter and walking away. "Take your test and your fire safety and shove it. Sir."

The sound of the door slamming as he left the room echoed down the corridor as he walked. He reached back to untie the knot of his apron.

He went to bed as soon as he got home and Bones didn't bother him at all, letting him sleep as long as he wanted, even through dinner. Jim didn't wake until half past three, looking around his room groggily and exhaling when he checked his watch. He could hardly believe he'd slept through the entire evening.

His stomach rumbling, he rose with a yawn and went to the living room where Bones' laptop sat, using it to check his school e-mail. He half-expected a letter of expulsion waiting for him, after telling Maru to "shove it" and all. Probably in bad taste. He was surprised to find an e-mail waiting for him from the instructor himself.

 _From: k.maru@faculty.starfleet.edu  
To: jt.kirk@starfleet.edu  
Date: Tues, Nov. 23, 2004, 6:47:34 PM  
Subject: Apologies_

 _Mr. Kirk,_

 _I owe you a sincere apology for my outburst earlier today. Mr. McCoy was right to admonish me; the personal attack was unwarranted and nasty at best. Despite any frustration I might have felt at the time, I am sincerely disappointed in myself for bringing up such a grievous loss on your part._

 _I must stress, however, that I was disappointed by your decision to put your grade at risk. You have demonstrated your skills as a highly competent pastry chef throughout the term and as a result, I will extend the opportunity to you to retake the final exam. Please return to the test kitchen at 2 PM tomorrow if you're amenable to this idea._

 _Sincerely,  
Kobayashi Maru_

Jim pursed his lips, rereading the letter a few times. Then he noticed a second e-mail from Bones, sent a few hours later.

 _From: lh.mccoy@starfleet.edu  
To: jt.kirk@starfleet.edu  
Date: Tues, Nov. 23, 2004, 9:23:07 PM  
Subject: Leftovers_

 _Fried chicken and cheese grits. In the fridge if you're hungry._

 _LHM_

Jim smiled faintly to himself, logging off and heading into the kitchen.

*

By the time Jim arrived for his retake of the exam, he was more than ready for another nap, his internal body clock thrown off big-time. Maru was sitting and waiting for him and they nodded pleasantly to each other as Jim went to prepare his station. This time, his only audience member was Maru himself; most classes had either ended early or been canceled due to the holiday and the fact that many students had travel plans. Jim supposed it was a good thing he didn't have a plane to Iowa to catch.

This time, he took it nice and easy. He made a napoleon out of white chocolate raspberry mousse and a warm peach buttermilk biscuit, complete with glazed peach wedges and, of course, fresh whipped cream. Jim presented it to Maru without much fanfare when he was done, folding his hands behind his back as the instructor sampled it. Jim's brow went up when Maru's did, as that was the most facial expression he'd ever gotten out of the man—well, beyond the yelling.

"The peach biscuit is very unusual, Mr. Kirk," he said. "Family recipe?"

"You could say that," Jim replied, nodding faintly.

Maru put the spoon down after a moment, writing down some notes. "Thank you, Mr. Kirk. That will be all. Have a happy Thanksgiving."

"Yeah...you too."

Jim went to clean up and gather his things, exhaling when he was through. He picked up his bag and went to the door, pausing when Maru called out to him.

"Mr. Kirk," he said, smiling thinly and peering at Jim over his glasses. "You do realize that it's an extremely rare occasion that I give out an A to a student?"

"That's what I've heard," Jim replied, giving him a quizzical look. Maru just nodded and went back to his notebook and Jim made haste to get out of there. When he walked out of the building, Bones was sitting on the front steps, reading a book and waiting for him.

"How'd you do?" he asked, squinting up at him. Jim shrugged and reached into his bag, pulling out the baggie of extra peach biscuits he'd made and handing one to Bones.

"Who the hell knows? Let's go pick up Joanna, yeah?"

"Yeah, okay." Bones got to his feet, putting away the book and taking a bite of the biscuit. He made an almost orgasmic sound as he chewed, looking between the biscuit and Jim's face. " _Jesus_ , Jim. This is so good it should be illegal."

Jim smiled and patted his back as they walked. "Remind me to go buy peaches and I'll make some more tomorrow."

*

When the doorbell rang, Joanna went tearing out of the kitchen, fast enough to nearly knock over an entire bowl of whipped cream. Jim caught it with a gasp and blinked at Bones, who just sighed and followed the sing-song trail of "Who iiiiis it?" coming from his daughter. Jim took off his oven mitt and went after them, smiling at the sight of Uhura in the doorway. She was holding a large bowl covered in saran wrap and her hair was down, which was something new to Jim. Uhura was always a stunner, but like this—relaxed and happy, beaming down at Joanna—she was drop-dead gorgeous.

"Hey, darlin'," Bones said, and he went to embrace her. She hugged him back with one arm, handing over the bowl to Jim.

"Hi, Len. Hi, Jim. I made a big, beautiful salad because I knew you boys wouldn't be making anything of redeeming nutritional value." Uhura knelt down and took Joanna's small hand in her own, shaking it gently. "Hello, little miss. What's your name?"

"Joanna." She dragged the toe of her patent-leather shoe along the floor, then reached out to touch Uhura's hair, making everyone laugh. "What's yours?"

"Jojo, this here is Miss Uhura. She's a friend of mine and Jim's," Bones said. Uhura nodded and shrugged one shoulder, tapping Joanna's nose.

"But you and your daddy can call me Nyota," she whispered. Jim nearly gasped where he stood against the wall, thrilled to have a first name at last.

"Can I call you Nyota, too?" he asked, as innocently as he could. Uhura gave him a terse smile as she stood up again, removing her gloves.

"No," she said sweetly.

Bones laughed and took her coat, hanging it up. Jim huffed and left the three of them there together, going back to the kitchen with the salad and placing it in the fridge. He still had to finish making the crumble for the pie, which was sitting on the counter. Just about everything else was done, though—turkey warm and resting, cranberry sauce in the fridge, sweet potato au gratin cooling on the stovetop. It would still be a few more minutes before the peach biscuits were ready.

Jim got to work on the crumble, his hands getting good and dusty with brown sugar. He blinked in surprise when someone tugged on his "Kiss the Cook" apron string; it was Uhura, standing there and smiling genuinely at him.

"Is that honest-to-god mulled cider?" she asked, lifting her brow with interest.

"Oh, yeah! Ah...where are my manners. Lemme just get you a glass and—"

"Don't worry about it, Jim. You've obviously got your hands full. Glasses are up here?" Uhura pointed to a cabinet and Jim nodded, watching as she went and used the ladle to pour herself a goblet full of cider from the big pot simmering on the stove. She was wearing a snug, ribbed red sweater and a black pencil skirt, looking every bit the Upper East Side resident she was. Somehow, she didn't come off as snobbish, though. He went about washing his hands and she sipped her cider, nodding. "Mmm. This is delicious, Jim. And the whole apartment smells amazing."

Jim shrugged, feeling oddly shy. "We wanted Joanna to have the best Thanksgiving she's just about ever had."

"I'm sure she will." Uhura stepped closer and hesitated before kissing Jim's cheek lightly, which was...well, a shock, to say the least. It didn't make him horny or anything, not by a long shot—just kind of warm and fuzzy. "Just following instructions," she said. She motioned to his apron and smiled brilliantly at him, showing off her perfectly white teeth. "Thank you again for inviting me. I wanted you to know that I really mean it...I'm happy to be here with you and Len."

"Don't mention it." Jim shrugged, trying to appear confident. "You're family now."

Uhura's brows shot up, her head tilting curiously. "You mean you and Len are...?"

"Oh...no! No, we've just become fast friends. I mean...it's sort of us against the world, you know? Our families are far away and even though Bones has Jojo here, it's still tough." He paused momentarily. "I've been keeping busy," he said, motioning to all the food, "but I'm pretty homesick, I guess. Especially today."

"Of course." She reached down and curled her hand around Jim's wrist, giving it a gentle squeeze. "But you're following your path. You belong just where you are. And you have Len to look after you. That's lucky."

"I know."

She smiled one more time and then let him go, returning to the living room to sit with Bones and Joanna. Jim washed his hands and looked out from the kitchen, watching as Joanna immediately latched onto Uhura, scampering from one lap to another. In the background, the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving special blared from the television and Bones appeared happier than Jim could ever recall seeing. Finally, he caught Bones' eye and the older man turned his head and winked at him.

"Hey, Jimmy—need some help in there?"

"Uncle Jim, when's pie time?" Joanna called, bouncing in Uhura's lap, still playing with her hair.

"Soon, Jojo! Hey, wanna taste-test the whipped cream while Dad carves the turkey?"

"Yes!" Joanna nodded firmly and went running over to retrieve a spoon filled with a dollop of the hand-whipped cream. Her eyes lit up when she licked it off. "It's so good!"

"She's been converted!" Jim exclaimed in his best televangelist voice, raising his arms to the sky. "Hallelujah!"

Bones just laughed as he stood and walked to the kitchen, poking Jim's chest along the way, right above the writing on his apron. "Job well done, Paula Deen," he said, dropping a kiss on Jim's temple as he went.

For Jim's part, he stood there and turned a distinct shade of pink while the women turned against him, giggling into their palms. _Yeah_ , he thought, _just as good as family_.

*

A few weeks later, he logged onto his account in the student lounge, Bones sitting by his side and doing the same. Bones wouldn't tell Jim any of his grades for whatever reason, but Jim had no doubt he did well; he was grumpy in the kitchen, but the man was a fantastic chef. His own eyes went wide when the list of grades loaded on the screen.

"Well?" Bones asked, looking sideways at him. "Maru didn't flunk you, did he?"

"Worse," Jim huffed. He slumped against the desk's edge. "A minus."

Bones just laughed and laughed.

 

XII.

By the time Hikaru rounds the corner off Broadway toward his apartment building, he's got a dopey smile on his face that he can't seem to tame, no matter what. Despite a little confusion and an extremely awkward moment in the park, his first "date" with Pavel Chekov was a smashing success, if you consider the fact that they got along and ended up making out in the park. Plus, no one bothered to call them names or throw anything at them, so that was a nice bonus.

He lets himself into the building and climbs up the four flights of stairs that lead to his apartment. Someone's listening to soul music and it keeps getting louder as he ascends. That's definitely not a good sign. By the time he reaches his floor, the music is blasting, unsurprisingly, from the direction of his front door. Hikaru sighs and unlocks it, squinting and peering around as he enters the foyer.

"Gaila?" he calls, checking his watch. It's later than he thought, so it makes sense that his roommate would be home. After the park, he and Pavel ended up going to a café, drinking tea and chatting for hours. It was so refreshingly easy to talk to Pavel and he'd been surprised when he finally looked at the time and saw how long they'd been there. They decided to call it a night, then, as it took Pavel a while to get back to Rego Park, but Hikaru rode the same train so they could continue the conversation for a little longer.

Hikaru hangs up his jacket and pulls at his T-shirt, trying to get some air against his suddenly sweltering skin. The apartment is way too warm and it smells like someone's been cooking—nothing unusual, living with Gaila. But it definitely smells like dessert. And that can really only mean one thing.

Lo and behold—when he walks into the kitchen, there's Gaila, sprawled out over their dining table in nothing but her matching green bra and underwear, some sort of chocolate cake and raspberries spread all over her bare stomach. And between her legs, perched on a chair and eagerly leaning forward, is a surprised-looking Scotty, naked save for his boxer shorts. Naturally, there's chocolate smeared all over his mouth, nose and chin.

"Oh, _jeez_ ," Hikaru groans. He grimaces as he turns his head away and half-shields his eyes. Gaila just looks up with a wide grin and waves to him, like this happens all the time—and it _has_ happened before, but it's not a regular occurrence, thankfully.

"Hi, Karu!" she exclaims, and Scotty is somehow just as bubbly.

"Hello, there, Mr. Sulu!" He licks a bit of chocolate from his lower lip and Hikaru can only shake his head.

"Scotty, you're practically naked in my kitchen. I think you can call me Hikaru. And come on, guys, I _eat_ on that table!"

"Well, what do you think Scotty's doing?" Gaila asks, giving him an exaggerated shrug. "He's eating, too!"

" _That's_ gross," Hikaru states, pointing a finger at her as he goes to turn down the stereo. "None of that kind of eating in my kitchen."

"I meant the chocolate cake, Karu. And it's my kitchen, too." Gaila sits up and grabs a napkin from the pile beside her, sitting up to gently wipe Scotty's face clean. He goes a little red as he smiles up at Hikaru, shrugging. Hikaru thinks he looks just about as dopey as he must have appeared on the walk here from the train.

"Would you like to try a piece, Hikaru?" he asks, motioning to the dessert sitting on the counter. "Bit rich, but if you're a chocolate lover—"

"No...thanks," Hikaru mutters, cutting him off. "I'm still full from dinner."

Gaila glances up at him, then, smile bright again as she remembers why he was out. "Oh, my god! I can't believe I almost forgot! How was your date?"

"It was, um...nice." Hikaru goes to the refrigerator to grab the Brita water pitcher inside, trying not to smile at the answering sound of Gaila's gasp. Scotty just looks between both of them, confused.

"A date with who?" he asks, his brow furrowed.

"I told you, Scotty; Hikaru had a date with Chekov, the new _commis_!"

"Oh, the wee Russian lad with the curly hair? He seems like a right sweetheart; too innocent for us lot, if you ask me."

Hikaru clears his throat, pouring a glass of the filtered water and murmuring. "He's not _that_ innocent."

" _Karu_!" Gaila all but shrieks. She jumps up from the table to go and shake Hikaru's shoulders, pieces of cake and discarded raspberries falling from her stomach to the floor as she moves. Scotty looks down at the wasted food and pouts faintly; Hikaru just laughs at the absurdity of the entire moment. Gaila grins and shakes him harder. "Tell us more! We want details! Oh, my god—is he like, secretly really kinky?"

"What? No! Well, I don't know. Jesus." Hikaru sighs, prying Gaila off him long enough to put the pitcher away again. "We didn't do anything especially sexy...we had dinner and went to the park and then a café. Just a lot of nice conversation."

"And...?" Gaila goads, her eyes wide and hands gesturing like crazy. Scotty muffles a laugh into his palm behind her.

"And..." Hikaru sighs, smiling a little as he tilts his head. "We made out in the park for a while. Okay?"

Scotty nods firmly, raising one of the glasses of wine that were poured before Hikaru arrived. "Well done, then, Sulu!" he exclaims. Gaila's reaction is quite different; she huffs in disappointment, crossing her arms over her chest.

"That's it, really? You're home so late, I thought maybe you..."

"Not everything has to be about sex, G. At least, not right away." He sips his water, trying not to scowl as he recalls the conversation in the park. "And anyway, I should be really pissed off at you right now. You know Pavel thought we were a couple, after the way you acted on the phone today?"

"He did? Why?" Gaila asks, looking around innocently. Hikaru can't help but roll his eyes.

"He barely even knew it was a date until I explained myself to him—which, by the way, was a fucking _ball_. Sitting in the park with a guy who doesn't even realize I actually _like_ him because you have to be so weird and sexed up all the time. It was fucking embarrassing."

Gaila takes a step back after Hikaru is done ranting; she gives him a look as though he's just flushed her goldfish down the toilet. Scotty cringes a little behind the rim of his wineglass, trying to pretend like he's not listening. Hikaru envies Scotty for the mere fact that he's not really involved; after all, he's never quite spoken like that to Gaila before and she looks like she's about to choke him for daring to even try.

"Well, excuse me for taking an interest in your love life, Hikaru! _You're_ the one who's always whining about how you can't get any, always all, 'Wahhh, Gaila's always taking all the hot people! My dick is so lonely!' Boo-fucking-hoo! The guy obviously likes you and not me, so what the hell is your problem?"

"My dick is _not_ lonely!" Hikaru protests. He purses his lips as soon as he realizes what he's said, putting his drink down and waving his hands. "It sounds like you're jealous, you know. That someone actually likes me for once and not you? That you couldn't rope him in and seduce him with your...your _stuff_. Your 'sexually liberated' crap—which is really just a polite way to say that you sleep around, if you ask me."

"Oh, bad move, lad," Scotty mumbles around the lip of his glass. Gaila's normally bright eyes darken and she pushes Hikaru back against the counter with a shove that he doesn't expect. He blanches when she gets in his face, pointing a slim fingertip at him.

"Fuck you, Hikaru. You think I'm some kind of slut? That I do more harm than good? Fine, then. Have fun in your sexless relationship with the Russian jailbait and see if I try to help you anymore. Because I could care _less_. Come on, Scotty. Let's go to bed and fuck like the unabashed whores of Babylon we are."

She spins on her heel and stomps out of the kitchen, leaving both of them behind to gape in her sudden absence. Hikaru squints with immediate remorse and slumps back against the counter as Scotty gets to his feet, sighing. He goes to cover the leftover cake in saran wrap, patting Hikaru's shoulder.

"As much as that was a brilliant display of foot-in-the-mouth, I do feel for you. Sure you don't want any cake?" he asks, holding up the tin. Hikaru exhales and shakes his head.

"No. Thanks, though. Sorry you had to see that, Scotty." He drops his gaze to the floor, shame flooding through him. "Hopefully Gaila knows I don't really feel that way about her. I'm just...I dunno. I really want it to work out with Pavel. He's...different."

"I'm sure she'll be just fine if you apologize in the morning," Scotty says, putting the cake in the fridge. He pauses and looks toward Gaila's bedroom, then leans close to Hikaru, whispering conspiratorially. "If it makes you feel better, I reckon I feel that way sometimes, too. Gaila can do what she wants and that's what makes her attractive, bless her, but..." He pauses, squinting in an almost comical fashion. "Do you think she might ever want to...you know, settle down?"

Hikaru blinks at Scotty and feels a surge of something akin to pity. Everyone at Enterprise knows that Scotty is in love with Gaila and that he obviously wants more from their relationship. But Hikaru's never gotten the sense that Gaila's willing to give it to him; her lifestyle practically defines her. He doesn't quite know what to say to Scotty, but he doesn't want to delude the poor guy.

"I really don't know," he whispers back. "She likes being unattached as far as I can tell, but...who knows? Maybe deep down, she's just waiting for someone to make a grand gesture and sweep her off her feet." Hikaru gives him a tight-lipped smile and shrugs. Hell, stranger things have happened...right?

"Maybe," Scotty replies, nodding. He pats Hikaru's back lightly and then goes to Gaila's bedroom, sidestepping the chocolate bits on the floor. And since Hikaru hates roaches, he sighs and goes to fetch the broom and dustpan.

He expects to be kept awake half the night with the sounds of Gaila and Scotty going at it in her room. For the most part, Gaila tries to be considerate when she has a guest over and keeps the moaning down to a minimum, as their walls are so thin; but since she's upset with him, he expects she won't be holding back tonight. He's surprised when he doesn't hear anything. In fact, when he gets up to use the bathroom after an hour and a half of fitful sleep, he's pretty sure he can hear Gaila crying in her bedroom with Scotty murmuring softly, trying his best to comfort her.

So much for his romantic evening.

*

Hikaru wakes to the sound of his phone buzzing on his nightstand and he feels around for it blindly. He exhales and rubs at his eyes so he can actually see the screen, finding a new text message from Pavel.

 _Thanks again for a great time last night...promise to come and make you pierogi very soon. They are famous! See you tonight xx P_

The enigmatic message slaps a big smile right on Hikaru's face that lasts all the way to the kitchen, where he pads in and finds Gaila standing in her nightie, pouring herself a bowl of his favorite (and rather expensive) cereal.

"Hey, that's mine," he blurts out without thinking, and she gives him a look that could split a man right down the center. Then she stops pouring the cereal and drops the box, the top still wide open, spilling little corn bran puffs all over the floor when it lands with a bang.

"Oops," she hisses, and then takes her bowl back with her into her room. Hikaru stands and looks blankly at the huge mess on the floor for a few moments, until Scotty comes bounding in.

"Looks like you dropped something there, Mr. Sulu!" he chirps, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. "Five-second rule applies, I reckon!"

Hikaru just blinks and turns around, tuning out the thought of an inevitable cockroach bonanza and going back to his room.

It doesn't get much better at the restaurant. Gaila seems to keep finding ways to bump into him, inside the kitchen and out, and she's usually carrying heavy trays with giant roasts when she does it. At one point, Hikaru is going over the evening's menu with Kirk and they're interrupted by a sing-song, "Coming through," before he finds himself nearly clothes lined by a rack of lamb. He ends up with a large stain on his shirt and nearly has a heart attack at the sight; service is meant to start in an hour and he doesn't have a spare work outfit on hand.

"Oh, my god," he gasps, looking to Kirk for guidance. The chef just throws his clipboard down and barks in Gaila's direction.

"Jesus, Gaila, what the fuck was that? You had all the room in the world to get around us! Sulu wasn't in your way!"

"I _said_ , 'coming through!'" she snaps, giving Kirk a death glare that he probably knows better than to argue with. He sighs and fixes his blue-eyed gaze on the brown stain spreading over Hikaru's chest, then his face.

"Spock will get you a new shirt." He purses his lips, picking up the clipboard again. "And I'd suggest that you fix whatever you did. I haven't seen her look this pissed off since Riley made that joke about, uh...self-glazing the pork loin."

Hikaru pulls a face at the memory. "That was...distasteful."

"Yeah. I mean, I totally laughed, but..."

Kirk shrugs and pats Hikaru's shoulder, going off to hunt down Spock. About twenty minutes later, he has a crisp new shirt that's exactly his size. Spock graciously lets him change in his office and when Hikaru holds up the old shirt in confusion, the maitre d' merely takes it from him and throws the creased, stained mess into his trashcan.

"Consider the new shirt a gift from Chef Kirk," Spock says, and then makes air quotes, "as a show of empathy regarding your 'lady driz-ama.'"

Hikaru's brow lifts in slight alarm as he goes to leave the office. "Do me a favor, Spock, and never say 'driz-ama' ever again."

"Please be assured, Mr. Sulu, that I certainly do not intend to repeat it."

"Thank god," he says, leaving the man to his work.

Service is a nightmare as usual, though Gaila manages to be civil when Janice is acting as a go-between for Hikaru's patron requests. He works extra hard to concentrate on his duties, as his mind keeps floating away to thoughts of his spat with Gaila and his budding... _something_ with Pavel. By the time his first break comes, he's so ready for a cigarette that he nearly eats the filter once it's between his lips. He leans against the back wall of the restaurant and shivers when a stiff breeze hits him, greedily going for his nicotine fix.

"Hey," a gruff voice suddenly says, and Hikaru looks up to see McCoy standing there, just as the door closes shut behind him. He blinks and moves to hide the cigarette, then half-considers throwing it away. But it's too late; the smoke is everywhere.

"Ah, sorry, Chef, I wasn't—"

"Yeah, yeah. You got another one of those, Sulu?"

"Um...sure." Hikaru digs out his pack and extracts a cigarette for McCoy, handing it over and lighting it once it's between his lips. McCoy makes a low noise of contentment, his dark bangs falling over his eyes. He can be a scary guy sometimes, McCoy, but up close, Hikaru can always sense exactly what Kirk sees in the guy. He's brooding and rugged and fucking _gorgeous_. "I didn't know you smoked," he comments, watching the _sous_ chef take a deep drag.

"I used to," he answers, pressing his back to the wall next to Hikaru. "Quit a while ago, but sometimes I just really need one to get through the night, you know?"

"Definitely."

McCoy smirks at him, then, exhaling a long trail of smoke. "Gaila's ticked at you, huh?"

"Yeah...I said something stupid to her last night and she's making me live to regret it." He shrugs one shoulder and looks off. McCoy's a nice enough guy but Hikaru doesn't exactly feel like opening up to him, since he's never been a confidant before. "Just roommate stuff, I guess."

"I hear you, kid." He nods toward the door and rolls his eyes. "Jim's not too thrilled with me right now, either. Keeps giving me the cold shoulder."

Hikaru blinks, trying to recall any visible changes in Kirk and McCoy's interactions this evening. Everything has seemed like business as usual so far, but maybe he's been too fixated on his own problems to notice. "Why's that?" he asks.

"Ah, I'm trying to convince him to move the hell out of Inwood and down to the Upper West Side. We can afford it now and there's no reason to pay a fortune in cabs after Jim gets soused every night. But he's so damn attached to the place...I think he feels like he'd be betraying his Podunk roots."

"I guess I can understand that," Hikaru says, nodding faintly. He offers the other man a faint smile. "Maybe you'll just have to drag him around to some new apartments and let him fall in love with something."

McCoy laughs at that, taking another drag off his cigarette. "As if anyone could drag Jim Kirk anywhere."

"Didn't Pike drag him to New York? Plus, if anyone can, it's you."

"Yeah." Smoke seeps from between McCoy's lips and his nostrils, the light from the overhead lamp casting shadows along his face. He shrugs, regarding the cigarette between his fingers. "I just don't want the kid to think I'm taking him away from his home."

Hikaru smiles at McCoy's description of Executive Chef James Tiberius Kirk as "the kid." He's probably the only one who could ever get away with that, and it's all because Kirk worships the ground his _sous_ chef walks on. And it's not hero worship, but rather tender affection and flat-out devotion that anyone with two eyes can see.

"I'm sure that wherever you are, is gonna be home to him, Len," Hikaru murmurs, flicking ashes onto the ground. He feels McCoy's eyes on him after he says it, but he keeps his own gaze on the ground, smiling a bit when he feels the usually crotchety chef pat his shoulder, just as Kirk did earlier.

"Apologize to Gaila," he says quietly, dropping his cigarette. Hikaru nods and looks up when McCoy's by the door, making his way back into the busy, noisy kitchen.

*

He gets his chance after the service is over and most of the chefs and servers have headed out to the closest bar. Gaila's on late shift and so is he; the kitchen is blissfully quiet aside from the sounds of clean-up and Keenser by the sinks, taking care of the dishes with the busboys. Hikaru works quickly to finish his prep for the next day's service and then goes to find his roommate, catching sight of a flash of red curls.

"Hey," he says softly. Gaila stiffens a bit, but she nods to him.

"Hi." She wraps a tray in saran wrap and purses her lips. "You got a new shirt?"

"Yeah, Spock got it for me." He pauses, considering telling Gaila the "driz-ama" anecdote but deciding against it for the time being. "He knew my size and everything, even without asking."

"Because he pays attention to detail. He's a gentleman. He knows how to treat other people kindly."

Hikaru sighs, leaning against the counter and touching her arm, guiding her toward him a bit. He's only mildly surprised when she follows. If anything exhausts Gaila, it's fighting; she's such a happy-go-lucky, go-with-the-flow person that strife or anguish of any kind seems to completely drain her. She looks up at him as if to give him permission to apologize, but hell, they both already know that he's sorry.

"I admire you more than anyone else I know," he says quietly. Her auburn brows shoot up and her lips part in surprise as she listens to him. "All that stuff I said...it was just jealousy talking. Insecurity, y'know? I mean, I _wish_ I could be like you. You're outgoing and successful and you know what you want in life, and..." Hikaru gestures around him, as if the Enterprise kitchen is an extension of Gaila. In a way, he supposes it is. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "I really like Pavel. And I think he likes me, but...I just have this nagging feeling he's going to realize how awesome he is, once he gets over being star struck over working here, and figure out that I'm just, like...a _waiter_. A waiter who never gets any."

"Karu," Gaila says, admonishingly. She shakes her head, a stray curl falling from her messy ponytail. "First of all, fuck you for making me feel bad about staying mad at you." He laughs abruptly at that and she giggles before continuing, rubbing his biceps. "Secondly, you're so _young_. You're not going to be a waiter forever. Yes, Chekov is a fucking wunderkind, but you probably know so much more than he does in other areas. And he likes you because _you're_ awesome—in last night's case, awesomely stupid."

"I'm good at that."

"I know." She kisses his cheek and then tilts her head, wrinkling her nose. "I guess I am a little jealous, like you said. He's so adorable. But I guess it's way past time that someone actually figured out what a catch you are and took advantage."

"If I'm such a catch, why'd you only sleep with me once?" he asks, grinning crookedly.

"I needed a roommate! I was, like, two days from being late on my rent, remember?" She laughs brightly and pokes his nose, smiling. "Also, I liked you too much to risk sleeping with you a few times and then writing you off."

"Yeah, same."

Hikaru startles when he feels his phone buzz in his back pocket, pulling it out to find a new text from Pavel: _Hiakru, where r u!! Krik keeps buying us wine,much sdifferent then vodka_. He laughs, feeling both fondness and slight worry as he shows it off to Gaila.

"Oh, god. I'll be done in a sec, okay? Then we can go over there and collect your punch-drunk boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend," Hikaru sighs, and Gaila just grins at him.

"Maybe not yet," she teases, "but soon."

When they arrive at the bar, Pavel is all but delirious, having been fed multiple glasses of red wine, a drink he's obviously not used to. Hikaru is sure he saw him put away at least four glasses of vodka the first night he worked, without even batting an eye. He falls into Hikaru's arms with a giggle and it's obvious there's no way he's making it back to Rego Park alone tonight.

"Take him back to ours," Gaila whispers to him, winking. "Maybe in the morning, he'll actually be sober enough to have sex." Hikaru just rolls his eyes.

When they get back to Astoria, he painstakingly guides a stumbling Pavel up the stairs to his apartment, ignoring his pleas for a "grand tour" and making sure that when he does fall, it's into Hikaru's bed. He protests only for a second before smushing his face into one of the pillows and instantaneously falling asleep. Hikaru sighs and fetches a pail to put by the side of the bed before he lies down beside Pavel, fighting the urge to play with those soft, soft curls. He looks so innocent, so boyishly handsome, and Hikaru boggles for a moment when it dawns on him that Pavel is actually _in his bed_.

 _Another romantic evening_ , he thinks as he closes his eyes.

*

In the morning, he wakes to gentle hands roaming over his chest, rucking up his shirt and tracing the faint lines of muscle along his stomach. He makes a sound that's half-aroused and half-confused as he opens his eyes, blinking foggily at Pavel, who's wide-eyed and hovering above him.

"Hikaru," he whispers. "I want to suck you. Can I?"

"Yeah... _yes_ ," he answers, a bit incredulously.

Pavel grins and scrambles to shift his way down the bed, but the sudden movement makes him take pause. Hikaru's excitement dies down immediately; he swears he can see the moment Pavel's face turns a sickly shade of green, and then he's looking around frantically, probably wondering where the bathroom is.

"Bucket," Hikaru says, reaching down to retrieve it and holding it out for the younger man to clutch. He squints and turns his head away just in time. When it's over, he rubs Pavel's back with his free hand and exhales. "So, um...I'll take a rain check."

"I hate Kirk," Pavel croaks. Hikaru nods solemnly.

"Yeah, we all do. Welcome to the team."

 

XIII.

Spock looks into the mirror and straightens his tie, mulling over his choice of accessory for the fourth or fifth time. It's a simple black silk tie with gray diagonal pinstripes; nothing fancy, as today doesn't call for anything celebratory or festive. Still, he feels awkward in his clothes, despite the fact that he's worn this suit many times before, as well as countless others like it—it's in his job description to wear suits, after all. He supposes he looks as good as he can and that, in essence, no one would blame him if he showed up to the ceremony wearing sweatpants.

Nyota walks into his bedroom, wearing a simple yet elegant navy blue dress, her hair cascading down around her shoulders. Her heels allow her to step behind him and hook her chin over his shoulder, her lithe fingers curling around his biceps. Spock finds her warmth most welcome and he lets out a little sigh, even as he avoids her curious gaze in the mirror.

"You look so handsome," she says, and that makes his eyes flicker up.

"It is not my intention to appear attractive," he says softly, letting out a small breath, "but thank you. You look beautiful, as always."

"It's not my intention to appear beautiful," she replies, smiling knowingly. She gives his arms a squeeze. "I guess we both can't help it."

Spock offers her the faintest of smiles in return and then looks down as he adjusts his cufflinks. "The car is meant to arrive in ten minutes. Are you ready to depart?"

Nyota nods and then moves to stand in front of him, blocking his view of the mirror and running her fingertips over the weave of his tie. She lifts them to touch his chin next, tilting his face forward to erase the space between them and guide him into a gentle kiss, a light graze of their noses. Spock touches her hips instinctively, then moves his fingers toward the gentle dip of her waist, the curves that have always seemed sculpted specifically for his hands. She's so perfect, standing there before him and watching him with her large, sparkling eyes, that he feels a shiver at the mere sight of her.

"Hey," she whispers, keeping her voice stern but soft. "I'm going to be right there with you all day, okay? Holding your hand if you want me to, or...not. Anything you need...I don't care who sees it."

"I'm grateful," he whispers back. "I do not have adequate words to express..."

"Shh." Nyota runs a hand over his cheek, smoothes his dark hair. "Let's go wait for the car, okay? My bag and coat are inside."

"Yes," Spock says. He lets her take his hand in her own and follows her out of the room.

*

They sit beside each other in the backseat of the town car and continue to hold hands during the entire ride from the Lower East Side to the cemetery, out in Flushing, Queens. Spock appreciates the comfortable silence, as it gives him a chance to gaze out the window and collect his thoughts. He wonders just how many people from the restaurant will be in attendance at the unveiling ceremony—Pike, certainly, and perhaps Scotty and Gaila. He knows Jim will be there, too, which means McCoy will likely accompany him. He told Jim about the ceremony about a month ago, and after some initial confusion on Jim's part about the significance of the service and a thorough explanation from Spock, he immediately pulled out his date book with a nod.

"It's a Sunday, right? Eleven o'clock?" he asked, making a note in his calendar. Spock nodded. "Got it. I'll be there."

"It is greatly appreciated, Jim," he responded, pleased with Jim's quick acceptance of the invitation to the ceremony. It appeared, somehow, that he wanted Jim to attend more than anyone he knew, possibly even more than Nyota. He couldn't quite explain the illogical feeling. But, as usual, Jim summed it up in his own concise way.

"We're friends, Spock. I wouldn't miss it."

Spock nodded and found himself at a loss for words. "Indeed," he finally said, for lack of anything more insightful.

Nyota brushes a hand against Spock's leg as the car moves along the Long Island Expressway, when the cemetery comes into view. "Is that it?" she asks. Spock cranes his neck to see out the window on her side of the car.

"Yes. I imagine my father is there already. He usually arrives early to everything."

She nods and gives him a timid little smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I'm kind of nervous to meet him."

"I'm quite certain he'll be taken with you, Nyota," Spock says, rubbing the inside of her wrist in a reassuring gesture. "I do not envision any alternative outcome. You're fiercely intelligent and shrewd...and, indeed, extremely attractive."

Her smile turns a bit sly as she squeezes on his fingers and strokes them affectionately. "Are you saying your father's going to fall in love with me?"

"Such a result would fail to surprise me."

Nyota laughs brightly at that and Spock allows himself a small smile as well, despite the fact that he's heavily weighed down by the solemnity of this day. She crosses her shapely legs and leans toward him. "How do you think he'll feel about Jim?"

"They have met previously." Spock arches a brow, taking a moment to ponder it as the car shifts lanes and takes the next exit off the expressway. "I sensed he was as perplexed as the rest of us."

*

He was working at Enterprise when it happened. He had just finished showing a couple to their reserved table when the phone by his podium rang with Pike's extension flashing on the display. "Sir," he said as he picked up, his usual way of greeting the man.

"Spock, I've got a phone call for you. It sounds urgent. I'll put it through, okay?"

"Yes, Sir," Spock responded quietly. A chill ran through him at the sound of Pike's tone; he could tell that his boss knew something that he didn't, something potentially terrible. Pike didn't say anything more, just put the other call through, and Spock waited a moment, listening to the person on the other end as they breathed. It took only a moment to recognize that familiar rasp. "Father," he said. "What's happened?"

"Spock," his father answered, hesitating. "There has been an accident."

After those sparse words, Spock's world tilted onto an unfamiliar axis and never quite righted itself again.

The next few minutes went by in a blur. Spock retrieved the information from his father that he needed, staying on the phone as long as necessary and ignoring the growing mass of patrons gathering by the door. He almost left before alerting Pike, but then he was right there, patting his back and telling him to go and get his things, that he would take over for the night. Spock nodded gratefully, out of words for the moment, and went to his office to fetch his coat and briefcase. He didn't notice Jim and Nyota in the corridor, on their breaks and laughing together about something, until Jim stepped forward and blocked his path.

"Hey, Spock. Everything okay? You look a little green."

"I must leave," he said, sounding out of breath even though he wasn't running, just moving quickly. "It is a familial matter. My mother..."

He trailed off, likely looking as grim as he felt, and Jim's face shifted immediately into one of grave concern. Nyota was there then, too, touching Spock's shoulder so gently that he had to force himself not to flinch.

"I'm coming with you," Jim said resolutely. Spock blinked at him in surprise and then shook his head.

"No, Jim. Your duties lie here with the staff. I...I will make do. Please inform everyone that I will return as soon as I am able."

"You sure?" Jim asked, and when Spock nodded, he let it go, squeezing Spock's shoulder and going back to the kitchen. Nyota remained there, and though it would be a few months yet before anything romantic blossomed between them, she looked at him with a tenderness that Spock could recall seeing passed between his mother and father on rare occasions—something he might be compelled, in the right time and place, to label _love_.

"What do you need?" she whispered. "Tell me." She was so close that her breath fluttered against his cheek, like the beat of a hummingbird's wing. Spock shivered and swallowed, searching for his voice as his lips trembled.

"I need everyone to continue performing admirably," he replied. And whatever that meant—he wasn't quite sure himself—Nyota seemed to understand. She nodded, sympathy brimming in her bright eyes, and stepped back. Spock wanted to thank her but could waste no more time; he went and retrieved his belongings and left, catching a taxi to the hospital where his parents were waiting.

*

There's already a small crowd gathered when their car pulls up by the gravesite. Spock's father Sarek is there, looking impossibly regal as always, as well as a few other family members. Spock spies Pike, Scotty and Gaila, and they all go over to him and Nyota as they exit the car. He shakes hands with Pike and Scotty and exchanges an air kiss with Gaila, who's dressed in what he presumes must be the only black dress she owns.

When Sarek walks up, Spock offers his hand for a shake. His father accepts the gesture and they hold each other's hands a little longer than necessary. Sarek moves with the same impeccable posture as Spock and everyone else in their family. His face has aged somewhat over the past year since his wife's sudden death, but he still carries the same noble air about him that Spock could recognize anywhere.

"Spock, my son," Sarek says, and though it likely sounds bland to anyone else's ears, Spock detects a trace of warmth that he hasn't been accustomed to hearing much throughout the years.

"Father," he replies. He lightly places a hand on Nyota's shoulder, guiding her forward. "This is Nyota Uhura, Enterprise's _saucier_. Nyota, this is my father, Sarek."

Nyota gives Sarek a small smile and for an odd, fleeting moment, it looks like she might curtsy out of nerves. Spock knows full well that Nyota has heard of his father, likely long before they ever met. His father happens to be a renowned culinary scientist, one who spent most of Spock's formative years guiding him in the same direction, education-wise—that was, until one fateful summer when he took a job as a host in a restaurant to make extra money and decided he loved that aspect of the restaurant business more than he could ever love his existing path. He dropped out of his food science degree program at Cornell and transferred to Starfleet Academy, enrolling in their culinary management track. Sarek never quite looked at him the same way after that. But Starfleet happened to be where Spock crossed paths with Christopher Pike. The rest was Enterprise history.

"Hello, Sir," Nyota says, shaking Sarek's hand, standing as straight as she possibly can. Spock watches her and feels overwhelmed by how radiant and respectful she is—full of pride, too, that he has someone like this on his arm to introduce to his father, and to bring to his mother's service. Nyota tilts her head slightly, her normally lush smile pursed and poised. "Spock has told me so much about you."

Sarek regards her rather coolly but nods all the same. "As he has told me many wonderful things about you, Miss Uhura."

Spock levels his gaze on a focal point in the distance. They're both lying—though he's told Nyota about his mother, he's barely mentioned his father beyond general details, and he's barely spoken to Sarek about her at all—and surely they both know it.

Another town car pulls up on the dirt road then, and Jim Kirk and Leonard McCoy come bustling out, looking abnormally dapper in fine suits and ties. Spock feels strangely relieved to see them, especially Jim, who has his _I-trained-myself-to-be-suave-and-serious_ look plastered on his face. McCoy walks beside Jim, a hand curled over his shoulder as if to guide or shield him.

They go up to Sarek first, and Jim launches into some rant about how it's a pleasure to see him again, despite the circumstances, and introduces McCoy as his partner. To Spock's relief, his father only nods and shakes hands with them both without batting an eyelash. Spock doesn't imagine his father is homophobic, but he does find Jim Kirk peculiar, and the knowledge that he has a male significant other will probably only add to that assessment. Not that Spock can disagree with the "peculiar" description.

Jim kisses Nyota's cheek quickly and then pulls Spock into a warm and unexpected hug, which makes Sarek's eyes bug for only a second before he turns and walks back to the gravesite. Spock stiffens at first, caught off guard, but then he relaxes into the embrace, resting a hand on Jim's back and daring to close his eyes.

"Told you I wouldn't miss it," Jim whispers.

After he pulls away, Spock blinks distractedly, nearly missing the sight of McCoy offering his hand for a shake. He takes it and nods slightly. "Chef McCoy."

"Call me Len, Spock," he says quietly, in his warm Southern drawl.

Spock falters, barely knowing what to say in the face of all this kindness. But then the ceremony is about to begin and Nyota tugs on his sleeve, leading him to his mother's grave and the beautiful headstone they're about to unveil.

*

Shiva was held at his father's home in the historic sector of Jackson Heights, out in Queens. Spock had grown up in Manhattan but his parents moved out of the borough once he went away to college, content to be out of the hustle and bustle of the city proper. Though they hadn't lived in this new apartment very long, the place was filled with memories of his mother and, to an extent, his childhood. In every room, he could still detect the scent of his mother's perfume, light and crisp in the air.

Spock tried to be as accommodating to their guests as possible throughout the week but it was extremely difficult. He found himself sitting on his customary cardboard box by the window, looking out at children playing on the street and trying to come to terms with what had happened. His mother—Amanda—was gone, taken away from them in an instant by a drunk driver. The man's surname was Nero; Spock hadn't bothered to learn his given name. In his mind, Nero was a dark and seething entity, a tornado or hurricane that had swept into his life without warning and wiped it clean. Sarek had been in the car as well and escaped with a broken wrist and a mild concussion. The passenger side had taken the full impact of the crash, after the other vehicle went dangerously careening into the intersection without any regard for the red stoplight. Nero himself had walked away, still drunk but with only a cut on his face, otherwise perfectly intact.

In the hospital, Spock watched through a window as medics and doctors tried valiantly to massage his mother's lifeless heart. It was of no use. He watched and watched until he thought his eyes might bleed from the devastation of what he was seeing.

Already there was talk of prosecution, pressing charges against Nero for involuntary manslaughter, mostly from Spock himself. But when he was alone, sitting and taking time to replay what seemed like an unbearably flawed and unfair turn of events, he felt more tired than angry; full of impotence rather than conviction.

One afternoon, Jim Kirk showed up, bearing flowers and a box full of assorted rugelach. Sarek showed him into the living room where Spock sat on his cardboard box, and Jim held up both items with a crooked smile. Standing beside him, Sarek looked incredibly nonplussed as he took the flowers.

"Spock, your colleague Chef Kirk has come to visit."

"Indeed. Thank you, Father."

Spock motioned for Jim to take a seat. He went to an armchair, then noticed where Spock was sitting. "Should I be sitting on a box, too?" he asked curiously.

"On the contrary," Spock replied. "As the primary mourners, the deceased's immediate family is required by custom to sit on low boxes or stools during this period, to signify that they are 'below' others as a result of their grief."

"Oh, okay," Jim said, seemingly content with the answer as he sat down. "I just feel bad that I'm in a comfy chair and you're sitting on a box with no back to lean against."

"As I said, it is customary."

"Right." Jim opened the pastry box and held it out to Spock, lifting his brow. "Have one. I got apricot, raspberry, chocolate... I tried one in the store. They're fucking awesome."

Spock peered into the box and plucked out a raspberry rugelach, taking a bite and remaining quiet until he swallowed. "Quite delicious."

"Yeah. So..." Jim looked around, probably to see if Sarek was there, but there were other guests that he had to attend to in the dining room. Jim and Spock were alone in the living room with the box of rugelach and other previously gifted foodstuffs. Jim ran a hand through his dark blond hair and squinted at him. "How are you and your dad holding up? Pike filled us all in on what happened. I'm so...fuck, I don't know. 'Sorry' doesn't even begin to cover it."

"It is a difficult time for me. For us," Spock quietly amended, peering down at the second half of his pastry. "She was a healthy, vibrant woman with many years still ahead of her. It should not have happened."

"It's completely fucked," Jim said simply. Spock almost smiled at his choice of words; he finished the rugelach instead. "I just want you to know that...if you ever need someone to talk to, I'm here for you. Honest and truly."

Spock swallowed his food with a wince, feeling the burn as it scraped down his throat. "I would not know what to say," he whispered.

"Just say what you're feeling," Jim replied, soft and kind in a way that Spock couldn't recognize. It disarmed him. He looked out the window, feeling his lip tremble the way it had when Nyota kept asking what he needed and what she could do, as if there were anything she could do.

"I feel anger," he began slowly, "for the man who took my mother's life."

"Yeah," Jim answered, his face unmoving.

"And yet...I fear I am helpless to change anything. I feel useless. I feel..." Spock swallowed again, shuddering at the slow, thick contraction of muscles. "I feel there is almost no point in seeking justice because it will not bring my mother back to us. Furthermore, I am in a position where I might confuse justice with revenge. I fear my judgment has become...compromised."

When he looked up again, Jim was leaning forward in the armchair, hands clasped between his parted knees. His face was now soft with understanding, his blue eyes calm with the depths of an ocean. "Spock, you have to give yourself time to mourn," he said. He paused, then, tilting his head. "You know about my dad, right?"

"No," Spock said. Jim's brow shot up in surprise at that.

"Oh. Well...he died the day I was born. He was the exec chef at the Kelvin...got everyone out alive when it burned down, including my extremely pregnant mother, but didn't see fit to get the hell out of there himself." Jim shrugged one shoulder, twisting his mouth. Spock listened and kept his face carefully blank—though deep down, he felt something in his gut twisting on Jim's behalf, as well as his own. Jim continued with a sigh. "They suspected arson, never found the guy. And, you know, I spent most of my life being angry. Hell, I spent _all_ of it being angry, until I met Pike back in Iowa. And then I realized that _being_ so goddamn angry was holding me back—that I wasn't making the most out of my life."

"You're suggesting, perhaps, that I refrain from seeking retribution in regards to the drunk driver that killed my mother."

"No, I'm not suggesting that. The bastard should be locked behind bars forever for what he took from you and your dad, Spock. I'm just saying..." Jim licked his lips and then fixed his eyes on Spock's. "You give yourself some time. Perspective. It's never gonna go away, but it'll get a little easier to cope as time goes on. You don't have to make all your decisions right away. You'll do what needs to be done when the time comes. And you shouldn't—we shouldn't—define ourselves by our tragedies. We still have to live."

Spock gazed at Jim for a while, quietly mulling over his words. "I suppose I should have known that you were born in a kitchen," he finally said. Jim laughed.

"Backseat of a taxi, actually. But came close to it."

"I imagine your father would be extremely proud of the successful young man you have become, Jim."

"And I know your mom was damn proud of you, Spock."

Spock pursed his lips and lowered his eyes, reaching into the box for another rugelach—chocolate this time, his mother's favorite. Jim took one for himself as well, raising it in the air as if making a toast, before popping it whole into his mouth.

*

It feels strange having Nyota in his apartment, as they usually spend their nights together in hers, where they'll be close to the restaurant in the morning. But Spock and Nyota both have the next day off with Pike's tacit instructions to relax after an emotionally charged day. Spock continually finds himself flooded with gratitude for such an understanding superior and coworkers.

Nyota steps up behind him and removes his jacket, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. "It was a beautiful ceremony," she whispers. "The headstone was perfect, too. Did you pick it out?"

"I collaborated on the design with my father." Spock removes one of his cufflinks, turning to look at her. "I believe he was extremely impressed with you."

"He's a little intimidating, I admit. But he seems like a very nice man. Now I know where you got your good looks." She grins and Spock does his best to ignore her, though he can't help the light flush that creeps across his cheeks.

"Sarek often seems unapproachable. I have always known him to be most at ease around my mother. I suppose he might be more standoffish in the wake of her passing."

"Who could blame him?" Nyota waits until Spock has the second cufflink off and then undoes the knot of his tie and works slowly on his shirt buttons. She looks up at him as she carefully attends to each one, the waves of her hair shining as they catch the room's dim lighting. "We haven't even been seeing each other for a year and I already don't know what I would do if something ever happened to you."

"Nyota, I am not going anywhere," he murmurs.

"I know that, but..."

When she's done with the last button, Spock folds his hands over hers and leans forward, tipping their foreheads together. He shuts his eyes and recalls her warm breath on his cheek nearly a year ago, the moment when he first learned the depths of her compassion. He hears Jim's voice in the back of his mind, rich with wisdom and steady as it was during the shiva, reminding him, _We still have to live_. And truly, this is Spock's life: this incredible woman standing before him, the loving memory of a mother who always believed in him and a host of colleagues— _friends_ —who support him.

"Nyota, I can never thank you enough for—"

"Then don't," she whispers. She kisses the corner of his mouth. "It's been a long day. Let's go to bed." Spock agrees with a silent nod, following her lead once again.

In the morning, he's woken by a delivery, which turns out to be a stunning flower arrangement and a box of freshly baked rugelach from one of the local Jewish bakeries in his neighborhood. He puts everything down in his rather small kitchen and takes a look at the card included.

 _I got extra chocolate. Here's to a life worth living. —JTK_

Spock can't help but smile to himself. Jim Kirk has been and always shall be his friend.

 

XIV.

One morning it just...happened. Len opened his eyes halfway, adjusting to the light filtering into the room, and there was Jim lying beside him as usual, taking up most of the covers with a leg slung over Len's thighs—like he owned the bedroom and everything in it, including the bed and its owner. Len's own body was curled toward his roommate, his arm wrapped around Jim's waist and his nose buried in soft, blond-brown hair that smelled of day-old generic shampoo and gel.

Jim's lashes fluttered a few minutes after Len shifted to stare down at him and he peered up with a whisper. "Hey."

"Hey, Jimmy," he whispered back.

And then Jim tilted his face up and Len leaned in to kiss him like it was the most normal thing in the world.

" _Bones_ ," Jim breathed against his mouth between kisses. And while the nickname was previously grating at best, it suddenly sounded like the sexiest thing on god's green Earth. Len pulled him close and the kid wrapped around him like a barnacle, like Len was the only steady thing he knew—a sturdy dock in a vast, punishing sea. Sure, there was some lingering morning breath between them, but Len didn't care a bit. Jim tasted as good as Len imagined he would, and it was only when his tongue was properly scouring the edges of his teeth and the roof of his mouth that he realized he _had_ been imagining it—for quite some time, actually.

See, Len knew Jim had a bit of a crush on him; Jim was a flirt and he'd been terrible at hiding it from the start. And the kid's homegrown, corn-fed good looks weren't lost on Len, not at all. But he knew Jim had a lot of growing up to do. Starfleet had turned out to be just what the doctor ordered; it gave Jim such much-needed discipline and was teaching him to harness his gifts. Len would be remiss if he said he hadn't been impressed with how Jim handled that whole Kobayashi Maru debacle, too. And then the way he'd been so good with Joanna to boot, well...the "kid" was becoming a man, wasn't he? Even if he did still slip into bed with Len every night. Not that Len minded.

Jim was already shirtless, which gave Len free range to slide his hands over his chest and back and feel all that glorious, solid muscle. He'd been attracted to a few men throughout his life but Jocelyn had been his high-school sweetheart, and until things fell apart, he didn't have much reason for looking elsewhere. Then Jim came along, who he couldn't _help_ but look at, he burned and burned with such a blinding glow. "Fuck, Jim," Len groaned, sucking a bruising kiss into the curve of his neck. Jim gasped and pushed up at Len's white tank, scratching the places that needed to be scratched, thumbing his nipples until he shook with want. Jim moaned when he felt Len tremble, grabbing at his ass.

"Wanted this for so long, Bones..."

"I know, Jim."

Len let Jim pull him closer, until the only barriers between them were the thin material of Jim's ratty old boxer-briefs and his own worn, cotton plaid shorts. He reached to pull Jim's underwear down, kissing away the hiss that spilled from his lips when the elastic slid over his cock. Len looked down and felt his mouth water instantaneously; the kid was well-endowed, to be sure. And though he wanted nothing more than to taste, his own cock was throbbing and desperate for friction, so he got off his own shorts and let Jim's barnacle limbs do the work for him.

Jim made a desperate sort of gasping noise when their cocks found each other, and he clasped Len's nape to pull him into a kiss, setting the rhythm. It was fast, way too fast for Len to last, and he could only take it for a few seconds before he nipped at Jim's mouth and grunted, shifting their bodies so he was on top. Len forced Jim's twitching hips down and kissed his cheekbone, his throat, his shoulder, to soothe and calm him down a bit. Then, when Jim felt less like he was going to shatter like a quail egg in a blender, Len made his own rhythm, moving his hips in a careful rocking motion. Jim made a sound again, but a quieter, satisfied sound, like he'd shut his eyes and found heaven or home; wherever it was that he'd always been searching out.

The kissing continued, deep and lazy but frantic at the same time. It had been too long since Len had had sex with something other than his hand and though Jim got around when he had time and was able, he moved his hips and ran his fingers through Len's hair with an urgency that suggested he'd been waiting for eons. His cock was long and hot and seemed to lean toward Len's like a fucking daffodil in sunlight and Len just couldn't get over how fucking _perfect_ he was. A perfectly foolish, reckless, rebellious, handsome idiot, moving like languid sex beneath him—his Jim. Len came with his mouth on Jim's jaw, the stubble scraping his chapped lips as he shot heavily over his roommate's quivering stomach. Jim whispered—"Bones, _yes_ "—before climaxing soundlessly, spine arching off the bed like a goddamn rainbow after the storm.

They each took a while to catch their breath. Jim looked nervous for a second and Len felt a panicky twinge in his gut as well, but then he just leaned down and kissed the shell of his ear and the warm, flushed skin beneath it. Jim sighed, sounding relieved and happy, and Len knew it was going to be all right.

"Oh, goddamn it," Len muttered then, his mouth pressed to Jim's neck.

"What's wrong?"

"You know what day it is, don't you?" he asked. Jim shook his head no and Len smirked, leaning back to look at him. "It's Christmas."

Jim blinked at him and laughed. "How did I forget it was Christmas?"

"Well...no money to go home, overworked and underpaid...I guess it's easy to forget."

"Well, shit." Jim sighed, curling close to him. "Speaking of underpaid, I couldn't really afford to get you anything, so...merry Christmas! I got you my cock."

Len bit back a laugh and nodded. "It was very special, Jimmy."

"Shut up, it was," Jim groused. "You liked it. You want more."

"Maybe I do," Len said. He turned and reached into his nightstand drawer, pulling out a small package wrapped in red and green striped paper. Jim blinked in surprise and sat up, dabbing at the stains on his stomach with the sheets before taking the package when Len handed it to him. He looked at it for a long moment with a small, disbelieving smile on his face. Len had to grin at that. "Come on, open it. If there's a puppy in there and it suffocates to death, it'll be on your head."

"As if you would ever put up with a puppy." Jim carefully tore away the wrapping paper and opened the box, going wide-eyed at the contents. He hesitated before lifting up a pristine pair of boxer-briefs—one of a dozen. "You got me underwear," he stated, looking at the label. Len nodded slowly.

"I did. You spent all your mom's mad money on that damn Thanksgiving dinner, and don't think I didn't notice. So, here. Underwear. You need 'em."

"Yeah, I really do." Jim laughed suddenly, counting the rest in the box and shaking his head. "Well, thanks, Uncle Len. Should I model them for you?" He gave Len a lascivious grin, the kind only Jim Kirk could pull off. Len just laughed quietly, shaking his head.

"No, don't you dare."

"No?" Jim repeated, putting the box aside. Len took the opportunity to wrap his arms around the kid and pull him close, sliding a hand down his side to that well-sculpted behind. Jim shivered as Len caressed the back of his thigh and he smiled. His Jim was damn beautiful and it was freeing to finally convey that he thought so.

"No. You stay just like this," he murmured.

"You got it," Jim whispered. He tangled his fingers in Len's hair as he reunited their lips and tongues.

*

It was the first Christmas Len had ever spent entirely in bed. Well, that wasn't entirely true—he did get up once to make some requisite calls to family and order take-out, though Jim was the one who lost the coin toss on who had to go collect it when the delivery boy arrived. It took all of Len's collective nagging and cajoling abilities to get Jim to agree to put on some pants before he went to answer the door.

His phone buzzed in the middle of the night. Len awoke to the lingering smell of whatever was left in their discarded beef lo mein and Kung Pao chicken containers; the Chinese hole in the wall a few blocks away was the only local place open on Christmas day. He squinted at his alarm clock and exhaled when he saw it was only around four in the morning. Any call placed that early in the day was never a good one.

He grabbed his phone and answered it, his voice edged with sleep. "Hullo?"

"Leonard, it's me." His mother. Calling before dawn, the day after Christmas, when he'd already called to (begrudgingly) wish her and his dad a happy one. Her voice wavered a little and he just knew. "Come home," she said softly. "Daddy's had a stroke."

"Yeah," he murmured. "All right. I'm coming."

A few minutes later, he was fumbling around in the dark for clothes, trying not to disturb Jim. He ended up nearly tripping over the box of underwear on his way to the bathroom, and the resulting angry curse did a good job of rousing him. Jim sat up and rubbed at his eyes, looking between Len and the alarm clock's display.

"Where're you goin'...?" he mumbled.

"Home," he said. "Georgia. My dad's in the hospital."

Jim blinked and furrowed his brow, scratching at the half-beard growing along his jaw line and kicking the covers away. "Okay," he answered. "Do I have time to shave and take a shower?"

Len hesitated and then wondered why he was even experiencing a hint of surprise; as if Jim _wouldn't_ volunteer himself to come along. And strangely enough, Len had no interest in discouraging him. This was kind of big and he was kind of dependent on Jim now. The thought of sitting in a blank hospital room, alone with his mother and his sickly father, made his skin crawl a little. So, this was fine. His mother would pay him back for the plane ticket anyway, so he'd just spend a little of his own money on Jim's.

"Yeah, go ahead," he said. He moved so Jim could have a clear path to the bathroom, and he pretended not to notice when his hand grazed Len's hip along the way. He went and started packing bags for both of them.

The flight itself was blessedly dull. It was only the second time Jim had ever been on a plane, not counting when his mother flew him back to her family's home in Iowa from New York City, back when he was still a baby. He paid very close attention to the safety guidelines and procedures, watching the flight attendants closely as they demonstrated how to use all of the equipment. Len closed his eyes and tried to tune it all out, making a noise of frustration when Jim shook his arm.

"Bones, why aren't you paying attention? This is important shit. You need to know what to do if we have a water landing."

"Jim, we're flying from New York to Georgia. There isn't any goddamn water between the two places."

"Well, there's lakes and things," Jim huffed, looking back at the flight attendant. After that, he spent most of his time looking out the window and flipping through the in-flight magazine, as well as the issue of _Gourmet_ that Len had bought him back in the airport.

When they touched down, they went to collect their things at baggage claim and Len looked around for a driver holding up a sign that said his name; his mother had told him she'd send a car to pick him up. Jim seemed a little boggled by the fact that there was actually someone waiting to drive them around—Len had never been entirely forthcoming with him on how much money was in his family. He figured there was no need; Jim was as genuine a person as could be and though he was after a lot of things in this world, some more tangible than others, money wasn't really one of them.

They let the driver lead them out of the terminal and it was then that Len remembered he hadn't yet turned on his phone since they landed. There was a message waiting for him and he listened as the driver loaded their bags into the trunk of the town car.

"Leonard." His mother again. Sobbing, in tears. "He's gone. Daddy's gone. Meet us at the house when you get here."

He closed his phone and looked at the car blankly until Jim stepped close and touched his shoulder, looked at him like he was a million miles away. And he was. "Bones, everything okay?" he asked, eyes wide and questioning. Genuine.

"We, um..." Len took a shaky breath and glanced away from Jim, opening the car door before the driver could do it for him. He ushered Jim inside and then nodded to the driver, giving him his parents' home address. "Take us there instead, all right?"

"Where's that?" Jim asked, making room for Len to sit. "What about the hospital?"

Len pulled the door shut and stared straight ahead. "No hospital. We're going home."

"Oh," Jim said, and nothing more. Len didn't have to look at him to know that the kid knew all too well what had constituted the change of plans. Jim laid a hand gently on his knee and Len let him.

*

They buried Len's father a few days later, on a partly cloudy morning. Len stood stock still in his hatefully stiff wool-blend suit, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the coffin lowered into the ground. Jim stood by his side in a suit as well; an old one of Len's that he'd worn when he was a few years younger and thinner than he was now. It was a little tight on Jim, pulling at his shoulders, but he looked good. He didn't try to hold Len's hand or embrace him or anything, and for that, Len was eternally grateful. The past few days had been strange enough, what with trying to explain to his mother and the rest of their family that Jim was a "good friend" who somehow saw fit to accompany Len down to Georgia to visit his ailing father.

And, in addition to avoiding any possible awkwardness, Len just didn't want Jim to touch him right now. He didn't want anyone to touch him. He probably would have shied away from his own daughter at that moment, watching his daddy sink down into the earth, the dirt raining down to cover him for the rest of time.

He couldn't even remember the last thing he'd said to his father, though he was sure it probably wasn't too nice. He hadn't come to the phone when Len called on Christmas.

That night, they all ate in a fancy restaurant and Len's family members traded memories and shed some tears. He barely listened to what anyone was saying, fixating on Jim instead and the way he pulled faces at almost everything he was served, as none of it seemed to be up to his standards of cooking. He poked at his ham and caught Len's eye, sticking out his tongue with a mischievous little smile, and Len couldn't help but mirror the expression, just a tiny bit.

When they got home, Len told Jim he needed some alone time and shooed him off to go watch television with his mother and aunt, who'd both taken a liking to him—unsurprising, considering how handsome Jim was. Len fetched himself a bottle of Jack Daniels from his father's ornate liquor cabinet and went up to his room to drink and drink and drink some more. Hell, it wasn't like his daddy would need it now. The more he drank, the more frustrated he got, the angrier he felt. His father—Mr. "You're a Disappointment, Why Couldn't You Have Stayed in Med School?" McCoy—was dead, fucking gone and _dead_. And Len would never be able to show him that he made the right decision in going to culinary school and pursuing his love of cooking. He'd never be able to prove himself, not ever, and if that didn't deserve a bottle of whiskey and some old-fashioned rage, what the hell in this world ever would?

He'd smashed a lamp and two picture frames by the time Jim came into the room. And then strong hands were grappling with him, trying to make him go still.

"Bones, don't! Your mom's right downstairs; you don't want her to hear—"

"Goddamn it, Jim, get _off_ me!" he bellowed, pushing Jim into the side of the bed. Jim gave him a wounded puppy sort of look and Len felt dizzy, turning away from it, from the damn beautiful sight of him; all that goodness made him feel even more worthless than he already was. "Go sleep in the guest room, just...get the hell out of here, got it?"

"Bones, I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you like this. Just...try to calm down, okay? I _know_ it hurts; I know how you feel."

Len bristled at that, clenching his hands into fists and raising his voice to a veritable roar. "Jim, will you shut the hell up for once? You don't know how I feel—you never even _had_ a father! You don't know anything about fuckin' anything, kid!"

Despite the massive amount of alcohol swimming in his bloodstream, he knew the words were wrong as soon as they left his mouth; they were shoot-to-kill. Jim crumpled against the bed, pinning him with a dead-eyed stare until he was scrambling to get up, licking his lips and shaking his head as he babbled, desperate to get away from Len and his fucked-up problems, his angry, maniacal bullshit.

"M'just—down the hall, I'll... Yeah, fine, okay, I don't—you're right, I..."

" _Jim_ ," he blurted out, the sight of his retreating back enough to make Len fall apart completely. Jim, god bless him, stopped and turned around, and when he saw that Len was falling forward, he lifted his arms to catch him, gather him close. He pressed himself to Jim's strong frame and when he felt a hand shield the back of his head, he let himself really lose it, just heave out all of the badness brewing inside him, nearly choking with the force of his sobs. "Jimmy, don't go," he begged. Jim held him tighter.

"I won't go, Bones, I won't," he whispered. "Never leave you alone. I love you, okay? That's why I'm here. I'm not gonna leave, 'cause I love you."

Len didn't know what to say to that, his head sloshing with impossibly deep rivers of grief, his senses overwhelmed by the heady scent of Jim and the alcohol making everything heavy and grainy. He pressed his face to Jim's neck and curled his fingers in his shirt, the same one Len wore to his high school graduation; it belonged, like so many things, to a time and a place he would never get back. It was funny, how well it wore on the back of Jim Kirk, the perennial symbol of Len's new life.

"I never was good enough," he said tearfully. "Never...made him proud. And now..."

"It's okay, Bones," Jim whispered, rubbing his back soothingly. "You've got Joanna to be proud of you. And your mom and me...and probably even Jocelyn. You've got _you_. You were never doing it for him; you were doing it for you."

"Ah, hell, Jim," he murmured, sniffling. "I'm _sorry_. I'm so...I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." Jim smiled tightly, the hurt in his eyes betraying him. But he could pretend and so could Len, and that was all right. "Let's get you into bed, okay? You're gonna be hurting in the morning, I know it."

"You won't go?" Len asked, as Jim carefully undressed him and poured him into bed.

"Cross my heart."

And bless him again, a thousand times—when Len opened his eyes the next morning, Jim was right there, spooned up behind him and shoulders hunched, like a protective guard dog doing his job even in his sleep.

*

It didn't feel like much of a New Year's Eve, but they were home in New York and Len supposed that was something. He made a roast, needing something to do with his hands besides pouring himself a drink, and they stuffed themselves with the meat and Jim's truly excellent side dishes until they were full and drowsy on the couch, watching some kind of countdown special with annoying hosts and terrible music. Len idly wondered what their friends from Starfleet were getting up to—Uhura, Gaila, Riley and the rest—but whatever mischief they had planned, be it dancing or bar-hopping or any remotely fun activity young people did, Len knew he'd rather be on this sofa with Jim, practically falling asleep an hour before midnight.

"That roast was killer," Jim commented, yawning as he watched the inane show. He looked as tired as Len felt, probably still exhausted from the flight back home earlier in the day.

"Couldn't beat those potatoes," Len answered. He wrapped an arm around Jim's shoulders and marveled at how easily he sank into the embrace. Len almost expected Jim to be a little distant after the terrible things he'd said to him down in Georgia. He deserved that much. "Jim," he said quietly, "I really am sorry for—"

"Bones, stop apologizing." Jim lolled his head back to peer up at him. "You were drunk and upset...I can't blame you for any of that. I mean...it's your _dad_."

"It's weird," Len murmured. "We were never all that close and yet...I goddamn well miss him, now he's gone. Miss him telling me how disappointed he is in me for quitting med school and all that. I mean, good _god_ , that's just sick."

Jim laughed at that, sliding a hand over Len's thigh. "Can't help the things we miss about people, I suppose. But I'm fucking glad you quit med school. Why save lives when you could be preparing exquisite gourmet meals and putting out my grease fires?"

"Thanks, kid. Good to know that all my hard work has culminated in being your resident fireman when you screw the pooch."

"I'd rather screw you," Jim replied sweetly, batting his eyelashes. Len laughed and motioned to the television.

"At midnight, okay? I'm staying chaste until then, like a proper gentleman."

"You're such an old man sometimes," Jim said, pouting. He burrowed against Len's side and he just smirked, letting out a deep breath and resting his eyes.

When he lifted his eyelids next, there was an infomercial playing on TV and Jim was still curled against him, now fast asleep. According to the clock, it was a quarter after five. Len grunted and rubbed at his forehead, laughing at himself. He nudged Jim awake as gently as he could.

"Whassat?" Jim mumbled, looking around with a start.

"Come on, Jim. Bed. We fell asleep before midnight."

"We missed it?" Jim blinked tiredly, looking crestfallen. "Oh, god, now we're _both_ old men. Thanks a lot."

"You're welcome. Now, let's go be old men in a proper bed. My neck's killing me."

They went to Len's bedroom together, Jim's tiny twin-sized bed seemingly a faded memory by then. He pulled the door shut behind them and was pleasantly surprised when Jim pulled him into a deep kiss, molding himself to Len's body. He returned the kiss eagerly, keeping it slow but tender, and when Jim finally pulled back, his tongue tracing some kind of secrets inside and against Len's mouth, he sighed and ran his hands over Jim's hips, whispering into the dark of the room.

"Love you, Jim."

Jim smiled and stripped off all of his clothes, standing naked and thoroughly inviting before Len. He reached forward and traced the cut lines of Jim's hipbones, mouthed against his clavicle. It didn't take Len long to remove his own clothes after Jim sauntered over to the bed, lying across the mattress and letting his legs fall open. The sheets were still rumpled from their quick exit a week before, and they framed Jim's body perfectly, all its dimples and soft curves and hard angles. Len licked his lips at the sight and went to the nightstand, retrieving lube and one of the two condoms left inside the drawer.

"Guess you'll have to buy more," Jim said, grinning. "Now you have a reason."

"Halle-fucking-lujah," he drawled.

He wasn't quite prepared for Jim's tight, delicious heat, all that pleasurable sensation sweeping over him. Len ran his hands over Jim's biceps and down his sides, watching those blue eyes flicker and burn bright even in the shadows of the unlit room. He spread Jim's thighs further and teased him, fucked him slow and deep, just like he deserved it, until everything spilling from Jim's lips was _love you Bones love you_ and it didn't matter who was proud and who wasn't and who was even paying attention, because the world started and ended with Jim and the way he brimmed over with all that right powerful love, pulling Len down to the body against which he belonged.

 

XV.

Nyota picks at her salad, pushing a cherry tomato around the plate with the prongs of her fork before stabbing it through the center and eating it. Her father, Al, looks at her across the table, sipping his wine. She supposes it's obvious she's bored. She'd rather be having lunch with anyone else right now: Gaila, Sulu...hell, even Jim. She definitely wishes it were Spock sitting across from her instead of her dad. Not that she doesn't love him; she's simply tired of expensive lunches on the Upper East Side where barely a word of interest is exchanged.

She takes a piece of bread and starts to butter it, even though she knows she doesn't need the carbs. Her father gives her a strange look, as though he hasn't seen her eat bread in years—which he probably hasn't.

"Nyota, are you feeling well?" he asks, looking between the bread and her face in amusement. She blinks and then laughs, nodding.

"Fine, Daddy. I guess I'm just hungry."

"Well, I should hope so, seeing as we're sitting down and having lunch. I just can't recall the last time I saw you eat bread."

"I eat bread," she replies, shrugging one shoulder. She thinks of Spock in her kitchen, wearing his worn T-shirt and boxers and making her French toast, holding her around the waist as she drenches everything in sugar and syrup. _Nyota, you are always welcome to sugar my toast_. She recalls his scent and feels a little shiver run through her. "On special occasions," she adds.

"I see."

Al gives her a quizzical smile and she returns it, then sighs when she spies him checking his watch. Her father is always on the go, fitting her in between appointments with other diplomats and meetings with heads of state. She knows he doesn't mean to rush her, but he's always had the terrible habit of making her feel less important than his job obligations; and she very well might be, but he could do a better job of hiding it and quit glancing at his watch so often.

A server comes by and takes what's left of Nyota's salad away. She breaks off a small piece of bread from the wedge in her hand and chews on it moodily. Al exhales and shifts in his chair, attempting conversation again.

"You never told me how that gathering for Spock's mother went. Was it fun?"

"Fun?" she repeats, scoffing faintly. "It was a solemn affair, Daddy; a sort of remembrance ceremony, more than anything. It was very...dignified."

"Like Spock," he appends. Al has met Spock once before—a dinner between the three of them—and though Spock claimed he was nervous after the fact, he was cool as a cucumber in Nyota's father's presence. It made her feel a little silly to be so shy in front of Sarek at the unveiling. Her dad seemed to like Spock well enough but he did spend the entire time asking questions about whether Spock had any plans beyond being a maitre d'. Spock, being Spock, answered all of his queries graciously, while Nyota sat quietly and ripped her paper napkin to shreds.

"Yes, Daddy, like Spock," she answers, rolling her eyes. She blinks in surprise when Al laughs across the table.

"You look just like your mother when you're annoyed with me. It's uncanny."

She has to pause and smirk at that. Her mother has definitely been on her mind lately, mostly due to Amanda's unveiling; Nyota spent most of the ceremony holding Spock's hand tightly and wondering where her own mother was in the world, if she would be ever be deserving of such a tribute. Her knowledge of her mother remains pieced together from Al's occasional stories and vague memories of her presence before she abandoned them for good, leaving behind an eight-year-old girl and a father with too busy of a schedule to truly care for her beyond hiring au pairs and nannies. Nyota eats another torn-off piece of bread and thinks of Jim and Len, both fatherless, and Spock, now without a mother, just like her. She wonders if there's something to the fact that they're all so close and all share this common lack.

Her mind slips away from her then and conjures Spock, sitting on her bedroom floor, his eyes shut in concentration as he meditates. Nyota likes to lie across the bed on her stomach and watch him; she makes a mental list of all the things he might be thinking, whether he's pushing bad thoughts out or welcoming good thoughts in. When he's done, she likes to reach out and run her fingers through his soft, dark hair to remind him that she's there. Sometimes she even gets a smile out of him.

 _In this life, we have so much to lose_ , she thinks, in a moment of clarity.

The server returns with her roasted game hen, placing it before her on the table. Nyota startles slightly and sits up, putting down her piece of bread. Her father looks at her and smiles fondly.

"You're a million miles away, Nyota, aren't you?"

"Not a _million_ ," she says, though she immediately regrets letting her mind wander. It's not often she gets to spend time with her father; she should enjoy the opportunity. She reaches under the table to touch his knee. "I'm sorry. I'm right here with you, I promise."

Al nods, patting her hand. "And I'm here with you."

*

Jim's in the middle of seasoning something when Nyota puts her pan down with a clatter and goes over to him, bodily pulling him away from his station.

"Chekov, take my station for a sec? Riley, take Kirk's."

"Yes, Chef Uhura," Chekov chirps, picking up the discarded pan.

"Sure thing, Uhura," Riley adds.

"What the—?" Jim blurts lamely. Nyota ignores him, guiding him by his elbow into the break room. Once they're away from the kitchen, he gives her a look that's confused and concerned all at once. "This must be important if you dragged me away from the busiest hour of service."

"It is," she agrees. She pauses nervously and then opens her mouth to speak, but Jim interrupts before she can utter a single syllable, his eyes wide and hopeful.

"Oh, _damn_. Oh, wow. Is this for real? I totally wasn't expecting this, at least not _tonight_. I mean, I'm not complaining, but..."

"Jim, what are you talking about?" Nyota asks, hands poised on her hips. He shrugs at her, gesturing between them.

"You pulled me in here for a mid-service make-out session; am I right?"

Nyota steps back with a glower. "No!" she answers, sounding more scandalized than she knows she should be. This _is_ Jim, after all. She goes and sits down in a chair as Jim squints at her, still trying to figure out where his fantasy went awry.

"Quickie on the table?" he tries. "Against the counter?"

"I don't know why I'm bothering with you," Nyota mutters. She stands up again, as if to take her leave, but then Jim's hand finds her shoulder and guides her back down to the chair as he takes a seat beside her. He smirks faintly and shakes his head.

"No, I'm done, promise. You can't blame a guy for trying." Jim takes off his hat and puts it on the small table before them, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs. Nyota has to admire the way he can quickly shift gears from leering and lecherous to kind and patient. "What's up?" he asks, tilting his head. He looks so earnest and interested now and Nyota touches her ponytail self-consciously as she wonders whether it's a good idea to actually confide in Jim. There's always Gaila, but...

"Do you think it would be a bad idea...if I asked Spock to move in with me?"

"Huh. Really?"

Jim looks surprised, almost as if he didn't know Nyota and Spock are actually a couple, but the cat's certainly out of the bag following Amanda's unveiling ceremony; Nyota held Spock's hand almost the entire time, letting him lean on her when his strength began to sap. She thought she saw Jim staring at them at one point, but when she turned her head to glare at him, his eyes were firmly fixed on the rabbi conducting the service. At the end, he and Len said their goodbyes and went back to their waiting car, exchanging soft murmurs and light touches on their arms, backs and shoulders. As she watched them comfort each other and soothe the lingering pangs of old wounds, Nyota felt a strange, deep ache that had nothing to do with the solemn nature of the day.

"Really," she answers, pulling herself out of her reverie. "Is that a yes?"

"No, not at all." Jim furrows his brow, sitting up in his chair. "It just seems kind of soon."

"Yes, well...we've been seeing each other for about six or seven months now, long before everything you saw at the unveiling, so."

"Yeeeeah," Jim drawls, cringing as he tilts his head. "I sorta knew that already."

"What? How?"

"Spock told me," he says quietly. Nyota groans and tilts her head back and Jim jumps up, gesturing wildly in his efforts to save Spock from any wrath. "Not that long ago, I swear! And I totally forced it out of him. I mean, I knew anyway, so he was just...confirming my suspicions."

"And how did you _know_ , farmboy?" she shoots back, arching a delicate brow. Jim gives her an annoyed look; he does really hate that nickname.

"I just did, _Nyota_ ," he states. She rolls her eyes but it doesn't deter him. "Gimme some credit, here. I know my own staff. And I can tell when two of them are making googly eyes at each other. Especially you two; you're one of my oldest friends in New York and Spock and I are practically BFFs by now."

Nyota resists the urge to roll her eyes a second time. Instead, she thinks of Spock's possible reaction to being described as "Jim's BFF" and actually cracks a smile. "I'm sure," she says, sighing. "So if you know us so well, what's your opinion?"

Jim shrugs, resting his cheek on his knuckles as he leans against the table. "I think it's a great idea, if you're really serious about it and ready for something like that. If it feels right, do it."

"Well...he may not want to," she says, looking down at her hands. That's the best way she can think of rephrasing the timid question of _What if he says no_? and Jim seems to understand that, if the kindness in his gaze is any indication.

"Uhura. He'd be crazy not to want to wake up next to you every day," he says. Her heart quivers in her chest at the words.

"How does it feel waking up beside Len every day?"

"It's amazing," he answers, looking every bit the open and honest Midwestern boy that Nyota met at Starfleet years ago. "Let's just say...if I'd known someone like Bones was waiting for me over here, I'd have left Iowa way earlier than I did."

"Right," Nyota whispers. She purses her lips and nods once, reaching forward to pat Jim's knee. "Thank you, Jim. For talking to me."

"No problem. Oh, but hey," he says, lifting his brow. "Can you do me a favor in exchange for the gift of my worldly words of wisdom?" Nyota looks at him skeptically.

"What?"

He gives her his charming, go-getter grin—which is cute, considering Nyota's the only person on Earth who's completely immune to it. "Tell me what Spock's like in bed?"

"Ugh, _Jim_."

She's already up on her feet and walking back to the kitchen when Jim continues, pleading as he follows her out of the break room, sticking close like a puppy running after a scented trail or the promise of a biscuit.

"Come on, I'm dying to know! Is he really Zen like he is normally? Or is he really aggressive? I've always thought he'd be secretly aggressive. Is he? Is he a total tiger? Okay, what are _you_ like in bed? You know, I devote a lot of thought to this stuff; the least you could do is indulge me a little! Pretty please? Uhura? Come _on_ , Uhura!"

She ignores him and relieves Chekov of her station, humming as she goes back to work.

*

It's not often that she gets to go down on Spock—he seems to prefer going down on her and she wouldn't dare think of complaining—but she does enjoy doing it, when he's in the mood. Nyota loves the feel of his cock, heavy and full in her mouth as she swirls her tongue around it expertly. She loves the little thrill of power that goes through her when she exercises her talents to bring him close to the precipice of release and then tug him back again. She also adores the breathy moans that escape from his lips as he tries to be quiet and the way he twists her hair around his fingers, not pulling but just touching, feeling—wrapping a part of her around him as if he longs to be completely enveloped by her entire body and not just her mouth.

"N-Nyota," Spock whispers, spread out on her bed. He's still fully dressed in his work clothes, though his trousers are bunched around his knees and his tie is rumpled and undone, hanging loosely from around his neck, the fabric spilling across his chest. His top shirt button is also open. He looks absolutely delectable and she moans her response around his cock. He jerks from the vibrations, gasping as he touches her jaw.

He's close, she can tell. Nyota caresses his inner thighs and lets her fingers lightly glide along the sensitive skin behind his balls and before his opening, tonguing the head of his cock as it gets wetter and wetter. Spock repeats her name, more guttural this time, as a warning that he's about to come, and she closes her lips around the head, peering up at him as she sucks. When he does come, it's with a nearly silent cry and an elegant twist of his body. Nyota swallows for the same reason she always does—because she wants to.

She lifts her head and licks her lips as she watches him catch his breath and regain his strength. He never wastes much time after a blowjob. "Nyota," he murmurs, exhaling shakily and touching her cheek, "I do not...possess the vocabulary to appropriately describe your talent at...at that."

"I had a feeling you enjoyed it," she teases. She crawls up the bed to lie along his side, flicking her tongue against his earlobe. "You looked gorgeous," she whispers. Spock just gives her a wisp of a smile.

"The gorgeous one is you."

Spock brushes her hair back, his hands gentle yet steady as always, and Nyota shuts her eyes, already looking forward to the blooming warmth she knows she'll feel when she wakes tomorrow morning and finds Spock lying in bed beside her. She reaches up and takes his hand in her own, kissing two of his fingertips and tracing the lifeline that stretches across his palm. Nyota feels him tremble at her touch and then she just _knows_.

"Spock," she whispers, looking up at him. "Will you move in with me?"

He gives her a curious look, though she can't detect any initial response in his eyes, be it negative or otherwise. If she didn't know better, she'd say he looked flattered. "Nyota," he begins, "I was under the impression that you enjoyed living alone."

"I do, but..." She exhales, attempting to gather her thoughts, which is fairly difficult, considering that she's also aroused. "I like it when you're here with me, too. It's so much nicer in the mornings and falling asleep next to you is easier than doing it alone. And you're here so often that practically half your wardrobe is in my closet anyway, so I just thought it would be...logical."

Spock quirks a brow as she bites her lip and waits, and when he finally smiles at her, she feels like her heart might beat out of her chest. "Your logic is sound, Nyota," he murmurs, kissing the worry from her forehead. "While I enjoy my own neighborhood, we can mutually benefit from a joint living arrangement. I'll be closer to Enterprise and get to see you every night and morning." He nuzzles her cheek and then tilts his head. "Also, I find your showerhead delivers a much more satisfactory level of water pressure than my own."

"I should have known you were just using me for my shower all along," she chides, poking him lightly in the chest.

"Indeed," he says, clearly teasing, amusement bright in his eyes. "It's an exceptional shower. One of my favorite places to pleasure you."

"Okay, hold on with the dirty talk," Nyota says, laughing and kissing him again. She looks him in the eyes, holding onto his hands tightly. "You're sure about this? I know you love the Lower East Side. And your apartment is darling and it's not a good market to sell right now."

"I would not sell just yet," Spock replies, squeezing her hands. "Perhaps it would be useful for storage and sufficient for sleeping over if we ever find ourselves in the area and don't wish to travel far. The apartment was handed down to me, so there is no need to find a buyer just yet."

"Yeah? Okay." Nyota smiles brightly and releases one of Spock's hands to rub his chest and undo the rest of his shirt buttons. "You know," she says, quirking a brow. "I asked Jim whether he thought it'd be a good idea to ask."

"And was his answer useful?"

"It was." She gives him a mock stern look. "He told me that you confessed to us being a couple a while ago."

At that, Spock clears his throat and looks slightly embarrassed. He shivers when Nyota pulls his tie off and throws it behind her. "I...I maintain that Jim plied me with delicatessen food to extract the answers he sought."

"Uh huh. A likely story." Nyota shifts to straddle Spock's lap once his shirt is opened and his chest exposed, lightly running her nails down the pale skin. He moans under his breath, his hands moving to Nyota's hips, fingering the cotton of her underwear. "He also asked me what you're like in bed," she says, smirking. Spock definitely flushes then, his voice wavering when he answers.

"H-how did you respond?"

"I left it to his imagination," she whispers, hovering over him and nipping at his mouth. She ghosts her hand over Spock's exposed length, smiling as it twitches with interest beneath her touch. "That's classified information. No one gets to know but yours truly."

"I trust you will keep it safe," Spock murmurs, pulling her briefs down. He slides two fingers over her damp lips, causing her to gasp and buck. "Fascinating," he says, lifting his hand to his mouth to taste her. "Good news appears to make you wet."

Nyota grins and pulls off her top, then undoes the elastic holding her ponytail in place. Spock sighs pleasurably beneath her. "You moving in with me is the best news I've ever gotten," she says. She keeps sliding her hands over his cock until he's good and hard and ready for her, and then retrieves a condom from her bedside drawer, preparing him. The entire time, Spock watches her reverently, his lips parted and eyes turned cloudy with lust. Nyota can't help herself—she leans down and swipes her tongue slowly across his open mouth, letting him share in the heady, lingering taste of his release. It's almost too much—she suddenly needs him now, right now, and she shifts to position herself over his cock, sliding down with a breathy, fulfilled moan. Spock shudders and pulls her down for another kiss, slow and wet, almost desperate with desire.

"I'm glad you asked, Nyota," Spock whispers against her mouth. He curls a hand in her hair, keeping her close so they share each other's breath and their eyelashes tangle. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

 _So much to lose_ , she thinks. _And so very much to gain_. She sighs as she begins to move, letting all words and thoughts subside, replaced for the time being by almost unbearable pleasure and immeasurable love. Nyota reaches for Spock's hands and twines their fingers together, gazing down into his molten brown eyes. She takes him in, over and over again, and lets her body do the talking.

 

XVI.

Pavel throws his notebook and his iPod into his bag and slings it over his shoulder, rushing down the stairs. It's not yet noon and his mother's in the kitchen, already working on lunch for herself and Andrei. Whatever she's making smells delicious but Pavel has other plans for the afternoon; it's his day off and once again, Hikaru has the day off as well. Pavel's pretty sure he owes the happy coincidence to Mr. Spock's ongoing good mood since he and Chef Uhura agreed to move in with each other. In fact, most of the restaurant's couples and pseudo-couples seemed to have the same luck this week: Scotty and Gaila, Spock and Uhura, and even Kirk and McCoy, who rarely have the same day off, given the importance of their individual presences.

Mr. Spock, it turns out, is somewhat of a romantic at heart.

"Bye, Mama!" Pavel shouts as he reaches the foot of the stairs. Marta puts her stirring spoon down and calls back.

"Pavel, where are you running off to?"

"I'm seeing my friend Hikaru today."

"Hikaru again, hmm?" Marta walks out of the kitchen, cleaning her hands on her apron and giving him a knowing look. Pavel just squints and smiles, scratching his head. His mother knows him well enough to get the real picture, here. "You're seeing a lot of this new friend, Pasha."

"We have a lot in common," he answers. Marta quirks a brow and he sighs, kissing her cheek. "Okay. We might be dating. I think we are. It's still new, but...I like him."

"I'm sure he's a lovely boy," she says, kissing him back. "Are you sure he's good enough for my Pasha? That's the real question."

Pavel blushes faintly and curls his fingers around the strap of his messenger bag, shaking his head. "Probably not, in your eyes. But I do like him."

"Well, then. You go have fun," she says, drawing back. She wags a finger at him, turning toward the kitchen again. "But you're going to miss beef stew!"

He gapes after her, pouting. "Save some for me?"

"We'll see!"

Pavel pretends to look wounded as he leaves the house, but really, he's smiling. He knows his mother will save him a large portion, maybe even two.

After a quick trip to the local market for supplies, Pavel boards the subway and heads toward Hikaru's place. The train ride to Astoria is fairly short; he loves the fact that Hikaru lives in Queens, just like him, and though they're in fairly disparate areas, it beats going all the way to the west side of Manhattan, as he's required to do six days a week. Pavel inserts his ear buds and listens to his latest play list, which mainly consists of Jay-Z's latest and Rachmaninoff. He shuts his eyes and tries to focus on seeing Hikaru—what he'll be wearing, what he'll think of Pavel's plan for the day—but his thoughts end up drifting back to his mother and father; the fact that Marta now knows Pavel's seeing someone and what this could mean for the future, if and when he has to tell Andrei that, yes, he's gay and seeing a man. Not that he needs to think that far ahead; Pavel's barely been at Enterprise for a month and his "relationship" with Hikaru is barely even worthy of the title just yet.

But still, Pavel has a good feeling about Hikaru. Anyone who doesn't immediately throw someone out of bed for vomiting first thing in the morning is definitely boyfriend material. Pavel gets a little thrill when his train reaches Hikaru's station and he walks briskly down Broadway, in the direction of his building.

When Pavel knocks on Hikaru's door, Gaila answers. Somehow, he isn't surprised.

"Hi, Pavel!" She grins from ear to ear, her wild red curls pulled into a messy half-bun at the back of her head. "Karu would have answered the door but he overslept and he's still getting ready," she stage whispers. Pavel laughs in surprise, then hears Hikaru calling from inside the apartment.

"I didn't oversleep! My alarm didn't go off! I'm almost ready; I'm just putting on pants!"

"Can I watch?" Pavel calls. Gaila giggles in delight and kisses his cheek.

"Oh, I _like_ you," she says, letting him inside.

Not a moment later, Hikaru emerges from his bedroom, looking slightly flushed in a T-shirt and rumpled, baggy jeans. His hair sways back and forth as he walks, clean and free of product, and he's barefoot, which Pavel finds intensely sexy, somehow. Also, he's blissfully unaware of the fact that his fly is down.

"Um, Karu," Gaila murmurs, motioning to Hikaru's crotch. He blinks and then cringes, turning away to pull up the zipper on his jeans.

"Jesus...okay. Um. Hi, Pavel." Hikaru laughs awkwardly and Pavel grins at him, putting his grocery bags down on the table.

"You overslept when you knew I was coming over? For shame, Hikaru."

"Honestly," Gaila says in a teasing voice, going to fetch her coat. "That is so rude."

"I had to close last night; I was tired!" Hikaru protests. Gaila just laughs and kisses his cheek, then Pavel's again. He can feel her lipstick smearing off on his cheek but he does nothing about it, just smiles to her.

"Well, now you can spend the whole day together! Spock is awesome when he's in a good mood. Scotty and I are actually going on a real date on Wednesday!" She buttons her coat and grabs her bag, going to the door. "Anyway, have fun, you two. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Goodbye, Gaila," Pavel says.

"Bye, G," Hikaru adds as she takes her leave. He glances at Pavel and smirks. "Luckily, there's just about nothing that she wouldn't do."

Pavel giggles and then laughs harder at the muted call of _I heard that!_ coming from the hall outside the door. He unzips his jacket and looks up when he feels Hikaru touching his face, rubbing his thumb over his cheek.

"Lipstick," he explains. "She's always trying to mark her territory."

"I like her quite a bit."

"Yeah, she's great." Hikaru smiles and takes Pavel's jacket, hanging it up. He motions toward the bags on the table. "So, do the contents of these bags have something to do with our plans for the day?"

Pavel grins and nods. "Yes! I am making you famous Chekov family recipe pierogi."

"Oh, my god," Hikaru says, laughing. "What's with you chefs? You cook and you cook all night, every night, and you get a single day off each week and all you want to do is cook some more."

"It's in the blood." Pavel goes to pull out the contents of the bags, arranging them on the table. "It is a passion. I love to cook, especially for people I am close to." He glances at Hikaru, who smiles at him so widely that it's almost blinding. Pavel feels himself blush but he smiles back, motioning to the cabinets. "Is okay if I use Gaila's pots and things?"

"Sure, yeah." Hikaru takes a seat at the table and watches as Pavel starts arranging equipment that he'll need, then comes back to the table and prepares to make the dough. "You're making it from scratch?" he asks in surprise. Pavel gasps as though he's wounded by the question.

"Of course! There is no other way, Hikaru!"

"You and your passion," Hikaru teases, grinning as he leans in to watch him work. Pavel rolls up his sleeves and pours dry ingredients into one of Gaila's large mixing bowls, then cracks an egg into a smaller bowl, beating it with a fork.

"Passion is important. Isn't there something you are passionate about? Something you want to spend your free time doing when you are not needed at the restaurant?"

"Plants," Hikaru answers, leaning his cheek on his curled fingers. He shrugs. "I like studying and taking care of them."

"Oh, yes, you have said." Pavel lifts his head and looks into the opened doorway of Hikaru's room on the other end of the apartment, in which lots of vibrant, healthy-looking plants sit along the windowsill. He remembers them from the awkward morning he awoke hung over in Hikaru's bed. "So, why not plants?"

"I have a bachelor's in biology already. I just don't feel like spending another five years getting a doctorate. I love botany but...it's not useful. It's not proactive. It's not like making someone a five-star culinary masterpiece for dinner; it's just like...great, I can identify that tree as _Ficus sycomorus_." He twirls a finger in the air. "Awesome. Go me."

"Sycomorus?" Pavel repeats, blending the egg into the flour and salt.

"Sycamore Fig," Hikaru says with a small smile. Pavel brightens and nods.

"Figs are delicious."

Hikaru nods slowly. "I like a good fig."

Pavel adds sour cream to the mixture and starts to cut wedges of butter, softened after the trip on the subway over from Rego Park. "Well, do not worry, Hikaru. You won't be a server forever. You can always go back to school for botany."

"Yeah, my dad sure would love that," Hikaru mutters. "Maybe he'd actually start talking to me again."

Pavel blinks and darts another glance at him before going silent, concentrating on his dough. Hikaru has made reference to a rocky relationship with his father before, but he's never been quite so blunt. An ache swells in Pavel's chest at the idea of a younger version of Hikaru going to New York to search out a dream, and instead finding himself alone when he arrives, without help from back home. He likes to think that his own father would never be so callous, but then again, Pavel is still hiding a big secret from Andrei, isn't he? He licks his lips nervously and wonders if someone like Hikaru is worth the risk—if the moment he's avoided for so long will be upon him sooner than he thinks.

After a while, he finishes kneading and fetches saran wrap to seal up the dough, putting it in the fridge. "Don't think you're just going to sit here and watch me work," he finally says. "You're my _sous_ chef for the day."

"Oh, am I now?" Hikaru says, smirking. "And what exactly does that entail?"

Pavel grins, pulling out potatoes and onions from another bag. "Peeling or chopping. You choose." Hikaru cringes and tilts his head.

"I'll take the peeling," he says, getting up to fetch the peeler from its drawer. Pavel nods firmly and looks for a large knife and a cutting board. Chopping onions doesn't make him cry as much as it once did, but he knows it's always the lesser option, even compared to potato peeling.

"A fine choice," he states.

Hikaru turns out to be an adept _sous_ chef, listening to Pavel's directions and only occasionally distracting him with flirtatious touches and kisses. The water in the large pot almost boils over during a particularly long disruption, during which Hikaru has him pressed up against the counter, nipping teasingly at his mouth, but that remains the only near-incident. Then, Pavel merely has to focus on cooking through a litany of mental images from a few nights back, in the men's bathroom of their after-work haunt: the slicked part of Hikaru's dark hair the only thing he could see, as he sank to the floor of the stall and took Pavel into his mouth. And then, the swollen curve of Hikaru's mouth that Pavel longed to kiss right off his face and the heavy weight of his hard cock in his palm. He ends up asking Hikaru to put on some music to take his mind off it.

After a while, Pavel serves up two heaping plates of potato and cheese pierogi and Hikaru opens a bottle of wine that's been chilling in the fridge.

"Just one glass this time," he says with a smirk. Pavel rolls his eyes.

" _Da_ , I promise to pace myself, thank you."

Hikaru laughs as he sits down to eat, though the amusement quickly ends when he samples his first pierogi and emits a low, satisfied sound. "Oh, my god. I can see why these are famous."

Pavel grins at him, so elated by Hikaru's reaction that he can hardly stand it. "Somehow, you've managed to stay thin while living with Gaila. But now that I am here as well, we're going to fatten you up, I think."

"Will you still like me when I'm fat?" Hikaru asks with a fake pout, cutting himself another bite with the edge of his fork.

"I think so," Pavel says quietly. "So far, I like everything about you, except maybe the fact that you are so hard on yourself."

"Yeah, well..." Hikaru goes quiet as he continues to eat. Pavel mirrors him; he's sipping from his wine when he finally speaks again. "I guess I have a tough time figuring out why you'd want to hang out with a waiter."

Pavel furrows his brow. "You're much more than that."

"Don't be clichéd," Hikaru sighs, looking down at his plate so he can't see Pavel frowning at him. "You barely know me. We've only been seeing each other for a few weeks... And besides, I'm not some kind of Jim Kirk superstar, just waiting to be discovered and introduced to the big time. I'm not like you."

Pavel chews his food and keeps frowning. He wonders where Hikaru got this terrible self-esteem from; if it's from his father, Pavel thinks he'll need to take a trip to San Francisco one day to have words with him. "I think there is something special inside you that you cannot see," he says. "You are extremely good at your job. The other servers look up to you...and Mr. Pike treats you like a protégé."

"He treats everyone that way: Kirk, Spock, you..."

"Yes, but don't you see? Mr. Pike only hires the best of the best. That is why I am so gratified to have this job—because I know I am working with very talented people, even those on the management side." He pauses and lifts his brow when a stray thought hits him. "Have you ever thought to pursue restaurant management?"

"Um...kinda," Hikaru answers, shrugging. "Pike's brought it up to me once or twice...something about the program over at Starfleet. But I'm so tired of school, and—"

"You should do it! If Pike says you can...he could help you gain entrance! It will be very different from your old school and you will do so well; I am sure of that!"

Hikaru laughs, smiling shyly. "Jeez, you're like my own personal cheerleader."

"Well, I believe in you," Pavel replies, smiling genuinely. Hikaru just laughs again and shakes his head.

"Eat your pierogi."

"I am!" Pavel reaches for his fork but it slips out of his hand, falling to the floor with a clatter. He cringes at the noise and Hikaru gets up to retrieve it.

"No more wine for you, Pavel."

"I'm not drunk! Here, let me."

"No, I got it, it's—"

They both crouch to the floor at the same time and reach for the fork; when their fingers touch, Pavel startles and wonders if Hikaru just felt the same jolt he did. Hikaru grins at him, then—that lopsided, slightly unsure grin that Pavel's grown so fond of over the past few weeks, and he can't help but lean in and kiss him; lick into his open mouth and taste the sautéed onions and flavors of home mingled with something that is purely Hikaru. He makes a soft sound in the back of his throat, like he's surprised that Pavel wants him so much, and Pavel yearns to teach him the truth: that this is what he wants, _all_ he wants.

Pavel pushes him down to the floor, not so hard that Hikaru hits his head, and he rucks up his T-shirt, moving away from his mouth to press kisses all over his neck, chest and torso. Hikaru moans, still sounding surprised but more so aroused; he keens deliciously when Pavel swirls his tongue around his nipple and runs his hands down his sides. Pavel shifts back when Hikaru tries to reach for him and he gets Hikaru's jeans open faster than he can blink.

"Jesus, Pavel— _Pavel_ ," Hikaru groans, and Pavel hopes that he doesn't want him to stop because there's no way he can. It's now his mission to make Hikaru feel good, to show him exactly what Pavel thinks of him, this beautiful boy with so much potential.

Pavel licks along his cock with broad swipes of his tongue, shivering as he feels it harden in response. He curves his hands around the strong muscles of Hikaru's thighs and feels them quiver, straining to remain still. When he feels careful fingers slip amongst his curls, he finally lowers his mouth over Hikaru's length and sucks, humming lowly so he can feel the vibrations. The gasp that leaves Hikaru's mouth as Pavel bobs his head sounds both relieved and tortured at once. Pavel knows he's being clichéd again, but he can't help but think that Hikaru has a perfect cock, just thick enough and long enough that it feels completely natural in his mouth. He wonders how it might feel inside him and moans at the very thought, which makes Hikaru's hips jump in reflex, the head of his cock jutting against the back of Pavel's throat.

"Ah, god, st-stop...hold on," Hikaru pleads. Pavel backs off and licks his lips, feeling how flushed his skin is when the breeze from the open kitchen window hits his cheeks. Hikaru exhales and sits up, taking Pavel's hand in his own. "Come on, I have a bed," he says and Pavel laughs, getting to his feet. Weirdly, he'd forgotten all about a bed.

Hikaru closes his bedroom door behind them, as if someone will barge in, and immediately goes to work on stripping Pavel of his clothes. Pavel does his best to get Hikaru undressed as well, feeling a little breathless at the golden sight of him. Whatever issues he may have concerning his personality, smarts or skills (and Pavel is willing to bet that it's all for naught and that Hikaru is a scientific genius), Hikaru never has to worry about his looks; he's gorgeous. Pavel tells him so as he presses their bare chests together and kisses him deeply again, leading them both to the bed and the soft, dark blue comforter stretched over it. Hikaru always makes his bed; Pavel noticed that the last time he was here.

They tussle with each other on the bed for dominance, limbs tangling and mouths smearing messy kisses. Eventually, Pavel lets Hikaru roll him onto his back and pin him there, laughing happily until his thoughts are absorbed by the blissful feeling of their cocks sliding together; Hikaru's length is still slightly wet with Pavel's saliva and that makes it feel even better, makes the whole entire thing about a hundred times hotter.

"I—I have condoms," Hikaru whispers, mouthing over Pavel's jaw, his hands everywhere at once. "If you want to."

" _Yes_ , god, yes," Pavel agrees readily, rolling his hips now for more friction. Hikaru nods and shudders, crawling to the edge of the bed to fetch supplies from the drawer. When he gets what he needs, he returns to Pavel's side and looks somewhat unsure, as if he's just realized there's a teenager in his bed. Pavel rolls his eyes at the sudden hesitance, dropping his legs open. "I am no blushing virgin, okay? Go on, Hikaru."

"Buh—yes. No, you're—okay. I mean...right."

Hikaru rolls the opened condom onto his cock and then slicks up his fingers. He slides one slowly into Pavel and he shuts his eyes with a faint moan at the sensation, which starts as a tingling burn and eases into a pleasant, welcome warmth. Pavel's only had sex with two other men before, but he's certainly not going to tell Hikaru that, since he looks like the slightest noise of discomfort might make him stop. But then, as Pavel relaxes around his second finger and starts to rock back against him, the tension leaves Hikaru's features and he seems torn on whether to watch his gliding, penetrating fingers or the look on Pavel's face.

He whimpers when he can't take it anymore, pulling his legs back and gasping. "Please, I'm ready..."

"Okay," Hikaru says, spreading more lube onto his length and moving between Pavel's legs. He looks a little daunted when he's in position and Pavel gives him a questioning look, which earns him one of the dopiest but prettiest smiles from Hikaru that he's ever seen. "It's crazy that you're here," he says, his voice a little raspy. "I never really thought..." Pavel laughs and cups his face, pulling him down for a kiss.

"Don't be clichéd," he chides, biting at his bottom lip.

Hikaru laughs and gets on with it, sinking slowly into him. Pavel holds his breath and shudders as he's stretched around his cock, shutting his eyes as his body adjusts; he opens them again to Hikaru pressing gentle kisses up and down his jaw and along the slope of his neck, and it's enough to distract him from the slight burn. Hikaru holds still, his shoulders trembling with the effort, until Pavel murmurs, "Okay, yes," and then he starts to move and _god_ , it feels good. Pavel keeps his thumbs on Hikaru's temples, gently rubbing the thin skin there as he rolls his hips in time with the languorous thrusts; Hikaru exhales a broken moan and Pavel licks at his mouth, as if to soothe him.

He keeps his ankles crossed tightly behind Hikaru's back as their rocking gradually intensifies in speed and angles his hips so he can be fucked deeper, better. He whispers to Hikaru that he's good, feels so good, and Hikaru just moans his name and keeps going, swiveling his hips with a finesse that Pavel didn't exactly expect—not that he would complain. Pavel kisses him between gasps for breath and eventually moves one arm to wrap around Hikaru's shoulders, reaching down with his free hand to close his fist around his aching cock, which keeps brushing maddeningly against Hikaru's firm stomach. When he dares to look up at him, Hikaru's face is set in determination, his hair flipped up in random spots and his forehead glowing with light perspiration.

"Pavel," he groans when their eyes meet. Hikaru bends for a kiss, his mouth catching at the corner of Pavel's; he flicks his tongue out to taste the crease of Hikaru's lips. "F-fuck, you're so...you just..."

Pavel kisses him to make him quiet because he knows, he _knows_ , and he honestly feels the same way. Hikaru is right—they haven't known each other for very long, but it must mean something that they were brought together, not once but _twice_. Pavel twists tongues with the strikingly beautiful man from the street, touching himself exactly as he did the night they were formally introduced as colleagues. Hikaru kisses back desperately and folds his hand over Pavel's fingers on his cock; they work together to bring Pavel closer to the edge, and the last thing he focuses on before he comes is a single bead of sweat sliding from behind Hikaru's ear, down the delicate curve of his neck.

"H- _Hikaru_ ," he pants, shaking as he gives into his bliss and spurts heavily against their stomachs. He grabs at Hikaru's bicep and squeezes, vaguely aware of a loud gasp above him; then Pavel feels his cock jerking inside him as Hikaru reaches his own climax, exhaling a hot huff of breath against the crook of his neck. When the thrusting stops and Hikaru's body goes lax, Pavel sighs and concentrates on breathing, running his fingertips over the bristly, manicured hairs along the back of Hikaru's neck.

"Tickles," he whispers, making Pavel grin. Hikaru pulls out with care and rests along his side, giving him a sated smile. "Amazing food _and_ amazing sex. Date me forever."

"Be careful; you might get what you wish for, you know."

"Well, it worked the first time."

Pavel thinks he knows what Hikaru means and that's good enough, so he doesn't ask questions—just lies back and keeps stroking gently until his maybe-boyfriend drifts off to sleep. He thinks of his father and silently makes another wish for the courage he'll need to tell him about Hikaru. He considers wishing for Andrei's utter understanding as well, but he doesn't want to be greedy; it's enough to hope for the best, considering how lucky he's gotten already.

No question, it's been the best month of Pavel's life—and his _life_ is only now beginning.

 

XVII.

"Dad! _Daddy_! Look, it has a fireplace!"

Joanna's all but jumping down and shrieking at Bones and the petite realtor tries valiantly to hide her wince. She turns to Bones and Jim and smiles kindly.

"It doesn't work, sadly. But it does lend an air of charm to the room, I think," she says.

"Yeah, I'll say." Bones smiles back at her, then goes over to wrangle his overexcited daughter away from the fireplace. "Jojo, don't you wanna check out the bedrooms? The one that'd be yours has a bathroom attached to it, you know."

"That's good, 'cause Uncle Jim takes _forever_ in the mornings."

Jim turns to her and pouts. "Jo! See if I ever let you use my styling gel again."

Joanna just grins and runs down the hall to check out the bedroom that may or may not one day contain her things, her long and wavy brown hair flying behind her. The realtor gets a phone call about a second after that and excuses herself to take it, moving to the other side of the room so Jim and Bones can look around without interruption. Jim takes a few moments to eyeball the scope of the massive apartment, which takes up the entire second floor of an insanely beautiful brownstone on the Upper West Side. It's one of the biggest living spaces he's ever seen, save for Bones' parents' mansion and maybe Pike's loft. He darts a glance at the realtor, the slight frizz of her hair illuminated by the sunlight pouring in from the admittedly breathtaking bay windows behind her. Jim swallows, watching her laugh amiably as she speaks to whoever's on the other end of the line, maybe another client.

He tenses a bit when Bones' hands find his shoulders and give them a gentle squeeze. "So..." he says, his voice trailing off in an expectant tone. "What do you think, Jim?"

"It's, um...nice."

Bones steps back and looks at Jim with an amused quirk of his brow. "Nice? That's all you have to say about it?"

"Nice and...big?" Jim squints and scratches the back of his head, shrugging. He's got no fucking clue what to say about this place. It's gigantic and ritzy and so far removed from his mom's house back in Iowa, where he still resided a mere five years back, that it almost seems wrong to entertain the idea of living here. Then again, Bones has been going on about this place for the past week, having already seen it once on his own, and Jim knows that this is important to his partner. "Sorry, Bones. It really is a great place. I guess I'm just feeling overwhelmed."

Bones gives him one of those steely looks that mean he's sizing Jim up and seeing right through all his bullshit—an expression Jim is completely accustomed to after five years. He expects to get some big speech about how they're ready for this and Jim deserves it and blah blah blah, but Bones just drops a light kiss on his temple and whispers in his ear.

"Come and see the kitchen."

He lets Bones lead him in there, fingers wrapped tightly around his wrist, and when Jim sees it, he gasps so loudly and suddenly that it turns into a gurgle, trapped somewhere between his lungs and his throat. The appliances are all brand new and the sink gleams in stainless steel between marble countertops, a swan-necked faucet (with a detachable head) swooping elegantly into the air. There are long, knotty wooden islands, an ample amount of wall hooks for their many pots and pans and enough cabinet space to house nearly an entire supermarket's stock. More windows, too, and more glorious sunlight bathing everything in golden swaths of warmth.

It's his _dream_ kitchen.

He realizes a few moments too late that he's standing there with his fingers curled against his chest, like an old queen clutching her pearls. Then he notices Bones laughing at him and drops his hand, taking a breath to collect himself. "Quit it," he protests, and Bones laughs again, but not cruelly.

"It's incredible, right? I knew it'd blow your socks off, kid."

"It's gorgeous." Jim steps toward the kitchen island and runs his fingertips along the wood grain, feeling it curve under his calluses. This kitchen is undeniably bigger and better than the one they have in their place up in Inwood, but the very thought of their apartment sends a pang of guilt through him. He's lived in Inwood for five years; aside from the very brief time he and his mom spent in New York when he was first born, he's only ever lived in one other house his entire life. And maybe their place doesn't have such an amazing kitchen or a separate bedroom for Joanna or a toilet that flushes half the time, but it's home. It's where he and Bones fell in love. It's everything. "It's really gorgeous," he repeats, going to look at the stove. Bones falls into step about five paces behind him.

"But you don't like it," he surmises. Jim sighs and shrugs.

"I just...I mean, yeah, it's amazing, but there's nothing _wrong_ with our place, and...well, what if something happens and we can't afford this place anymore? Or if—"

"Jim. Hey." Bones walks over and places a hand on his shoulder again, but just for a moment, before he lifts it to lightly cup Jim's cheek. "I know you spent years scraping together enough money to pay rent and using whatever was left to eat...swallowing your pride when you needed things and I had the money. But you made it, okay? It's not like that anymore. You're working at one of the city's best restaurants, Pike pays us generously; you're a success—not only a chef, but an _award-winning_ chef."

Bones gives him a smug look and Jim blushes at the reference to the events of the previous day: it began when Bones woke him up by jumping on the bed and then congratulated him for winning this year's Rising Star Chef Award by spraying a freshly opened bottle of champagne in his face. That part wasn't so great, but the combination of good news, morning mimosas and sex with Bones totally made it all worthwhile; the bed sheets were soaked, but they sent them out to be cleaned. Early prep at Enterprise was then punctuated by more champagne spraying, after which Jim resigned himself to smelling like a wino all day. Scotty almost put out Chekov's eye with a flying cork, but the kid managed to escape unharmed.

Jim sighs, leaning into Bones' touch and nodding. "Yeah...of course. I know that. It's just a lot to get used to. Things are so different now."

"They're a little different, but not in the ways that count. And I just think...between us getting older and Jo getting older, we'll all need more space as time goes on. It doesn't pay to sit on our good fortune when we can take advantage of the crummy market and invest in something better."

"You just wanna live close to Fairway and Zabar's," Jim murmurs, smiling crookedly. Bones smirks, lifting a finger in the air.

"And Café Lalo," he adds.

"Oh, my god," Jim gasps, his eyes going wide. " _You've Got Mail_! Bones, I _love_ that movie."

"I know, Jimmy. Believe me, I know."

Jim leans his hip against the kitchen island and pouts faintly, about to give a smarmy reply, when Joanna comes bounding in with the realtor trailing behind her. Though the realtor looks just as kind and patient as ever, Joanna's hands are clasped before her, the most pleading of looks on her face.

"Daddy, Daddy, oh, my god. We _have_ to live here. Please? It's, like, the most amazing house ever. It's so _Gossip Girl_."

"Doesn't that take place on the Upper East Side?" Jim asks, cocking his head. Bones snorts and bends to kiss the top of Joanna's head.

"I don't wanna know how you know that, Jim," he says. He looks at Joanna then, smiling faintly. "I'm glad you like it, Jojo. But me and Jim need some time to think about it, okay?" Jim watches as Bones exchanges a look with the realtor, who looks disappointed but nods anyway, placing her clipboard back into her bag.

"But _Daddy_ ," Joanna huffs, stomping her foot. "Your place is so far away. All of my friends' parents don't even know where Inwood _is_."

The realtor lifts a finger before joining the conversation. "Just so you know...there _is_ another couple interested in the apartment. I honestly think you two would make a better fit, so I'm willing to string them along for a couple more days, but probably not much longer than that."

"All right, well...thanks, Helen. We'll get back to you on it real soon. We've just gotta discuss some things and talk it over."

"Yeah," Jim adds, feeling a little lame for ruining the moment and also strangely left out, though he has no idea why. "Thanks, Helen."

"No problem, guys. Let me know if you want to see it again or if you have any other questions."

They both nod and Joanna keeps huffing her displeasure that they aren't signing a lease right this minute. Bones just places a hand on her back, guiding her toward the door when Helen starts to walk them out. Jim trails behind them, watching them closely, noting Bones' body language. Bones pauses to take one last look around at his dream home, then smiles when their eyes meet, pretending he was looking at Jim all along.

The air smells sweet when they walk outside, as sweet as it ever gets in New York, and Jim looks around as he walks down the front stairs of the building, taking in the lay of the land. No Domino's in sight, but it looks like a nice neighborhood all the same; a really nice neighborhood, quaint and utterly livable.

"Hey," he says, and both Bones and Joanna turn to look at him. "Wanna go to Café Lalo? It really is right near here."

Joanna lights up. "Can I get a chocolate milkshake? And strawberry shortcake?"

"Sorry, Jo—you're getting a decaf espresso and carrot cake," Jim replies, shaking his head and shrugging, as if the situation is out of his hands.

"Eww! Gross. Uncle Jim, that is _so gross_."

Bones and Jim exchange a grin. Right now, everything in Joanna's twelve-year-old world is either _gross_ or _wicked_ or _awesomesauce_. Jim thinks "awesomesauce" is kind of an ingenious adjective, but it makes Bones grit his teeth in displeasure.

"Does ‘gross' actually mean delicious, the way ‘sick' means cool? Because if so, then you're right; carrot cake and espresso is so totally _wicked_ gross."

"Why are you so weird?" Joanna asks, rolling her eyes in a way that makes her look just like her father. Jim finds it a little freaky. Bones laughs and lightly strokes her hair, reaching to hold her hand before he remembers she doesn't like doing that anymore.

"That's something I've been trying to figure out myself for years," he says.

Jim just smiles and walks, slipping his hands into his pockets.

*

Bones falls asleep on the sofa that night as they watch something mindless on TV. Jim smiles at the sight and reaches out to gently toy with his silky brown hair. It was a good day off, all things considered, even though Jim probably disappointed his two McCoys by asking for more time to think about the Upper West Side place. He looks around their apartment now and it feels so much smaller than it did this morning. He's not even sure they have enough stuff for the other place, though he's willing to bet Joanna could help remedy that. Right now, she takes Jim's old room whenever she stays with them in Inwood, but she tends to prefer staying with Jocelyn; the new apartment might very well change that.

Just then, Jim's phone buzzes in his pocket. He stands and moves away from the sofa so as not to disturb Bones, going into the kitchen. The name that comes up on the screen takes him by surprise and makes his breath catch as he answers.

"...Mom?"

"Hi, Jimmy," Winona says, laughing softly. Her voice sounds a little watery, like she's been crying. "You're surprised to hear from me; I can tell."

"Not surprised, just...I've been really busy with Bones and Jo...and the restaurant. I'm sorry I haven't called."

"No, no, you've got your life to think about. I wanted to call because, well...Chris called me earlier."

She pauses to sniffle and Jim squints, wondering if Winona and Pike are fighting again on his behalf. After all, his mom never wanted him to go back to New York—never wanted him to become a chef at all. When Jim learned of his dad's legend as a kid, he immediately took an interest in the culinary arts, asking for toy kitchen sets and begging to help Winona and his grandmother cook for big holiday meals. But Winona hadn't encouraged his obvious aptitude for it, instead trying to focus his attentions on becoming some kind of doctor "like Sam, who ended up as a pediatrician after he got all the running away out of his system) or a lawyer—lord knew Jim had the mouth for it, she always used to say. She took his refusal to go to college as a personal offense, as well as his decision to spend his days as a line cook in that tin-can diner. Running off to New York to pursue culinary school was the greatest heartbreak of all, resulting in a lack of regular phone calls and a lapse in monetary help. But eventually, she did send money, did start calling again, and spent most of their conversations sighing and whispering that she hoped Jim knew what he was doing. On his toughest days, he wasn't so sure himself.

"Mom?" Jim sits down at the kitchen table and licks his lips nervously when she doesn't say anything for a while. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine, I promise. It's just...Chris told me about the award." Winona takes another deep breath and then Jim can swear he hears her smiling on the other end. "I'm so _proud_ of you, Jim."

"You...you are?" he asks in a whisper. He feels his own eyes well and automatically reaches up to wipe at them.

"Of course I am, Jimmy. You're so...god, you're so talented and smart, and...I just can't believe that with all the grief I gave you, all those years, that you turned out to be such an amazing person. All the times I—"

"Mom," he says, cutting her off. He curls his fingers against the tabletop, feeling the grain as he did in the kitchen of the other apartment. "It's okay. You were scared. I understand that now."

"I was," she agrees, sniffing again. She's probably dabbing tissues against her face. "I really was, Jim, you have no idea. That city was...I lost almost everything to that city. I was afraid that if you went back there, I'd lose you, too. But you've made such a wonderful life for yourself—you have your restaurant and Leonard and his daughter, and...god, I can't believe my former terror of a child is a settled-down _family_ man."

"You'll make me feel old," Jim says, wiping at his face again and smiling.

"But that's just it, Jimmy—you're not old, you're still only twenty-seven. You've accomplished so much and you still have your entire life ahead of you. And now this award, well... It's just fantastic, Jim. Dad would be so proud of you. You know that, right?"

Jim certainly hopes so. He gazes toward the open window and finds the moon, half- covered in clouds but otherwise full and crisp. As a child, he used to squint hard to see if he could make out his dad's face up there—his mom always assured him that George was watching over them, as sure as the moon and the stars in the sky.

"Bones wants to move to this fancy-schmancy place down on the Upper West Side," he finally says, bowing his head. "Think we should do it?"

"Wherever the people you love most are, that's where home is, Jim," she answers, soft and assured. "That's why I moved us back to Iowa when you were a baby; I knew we'd have loved ones near us. So as long as Leonard's there with you, that's all that counts, I should think."

Jim sighs, glancing back out at Bones passed out on the sofa in the living room, his head tipped back on the cushion as he snores. "I knew you'd be on his side," he mutters affectionately. Winona laughs.

"You can't win 'em all, Jimmy."

*

Bones walks into Jim's little office with a grumble, having been assigned to do some extra post-shift prep work, even after the rest of the staff's been sent home for the night. Jim pretends not to notice him, making notes for Spock and working on proposed specials for the next week. It's extremely difficult not to crack a grin when Bones comes sauntering up to his desk with his hands on his hips, wearing a rather surly expression.

"Have you dreamt up anything else annoying for me to do while you've been down here? Something else that only _I'm_ qualified to do and not a single other person in that entire goddamn kitchen?"

Okay, so his plan might have involved a little exaggeration. Jim doesn't look up at him or reply, just pushes a document forward on the table. He can _feel_ Bones' eye roll without even seeing it. It makes him think of Joanna, petulant and on the verge of adolescence.

"Let me guess: a list of chores. Getting formal on me now, I see."

"You're so fucking grumpy after a shift. Just..." And he nudges the paper forward again, with more emphasis this time. Bones exhales heavily and picks it up, and only then does Jim dare to lift his gaze. He smiles as Bones' expression shifts from frustration to complete and utter surprise.

"Jim, what...?"

It's the lease for the new apartment. Signed with today's date by one James T. Kirk, co-tenant. Jim lifts his hand and holds out a pen to Bones.

"Go ahead," he says. "Just needs your John Hancock and it's ours."

Bones puts the lease down and furrows his brow. "But when did you—"

"I called Helen back earlier today and she faxed it over. Whatever, doesn't matter. She'll come by tomorrow to pick it up and get things started. I mean, she said we only had a few days to think about it, remember? So time's of the essence. Here," he says, shaking the pen at him. "Take it already."

"Jim," Bones drawls flatly. "You know this is a legal document, right? Not like that time you wrote Scotty an I.O.U. on a cocktail napkin and said you'd get it notarized."

"Yes, Bones, I _understand_." He purses his lips and thrusts the pen forward, so it nearly pokes Bones right in the sternum. "Now fucking sign it before I decide to get back at you for insulting my intelligence and throw it down the garbage disposal instead."

Bones can't help but smirk at that. He takes the pen from Jim and bends forward to sign on the other provided line, dating it neatly and letting out a long, deep breath, as if he's been holding it in since they left the place yesterday. Jim stares up at him as Bones stares down at the document, his warm hazel eyes squinting as they skim over the fine print.

"What made you change your mind?" he asks quietly. Jim licks his lips.

"My mind wasn't really made up one way or the other. I just did a lot of thinking and figured...hey, we'll be closer to the restaurant, it's in a nicer neighborhood...plus, Jo loves the place, so she'll probably want to stay over more often, which will be great for your relationship..." Jim shrugs both shoulders. For a second, he thinks about telling Bones about his chat with his mom, but then decides against it; he wants to keep that memory all to himself. He's still processing the entire thing. "Aside from nostalgia, there's no reason to stay in our place anymore. We've kind of outgrown it."

"It has been getting a little crowded, what with your ego taking up all the extra space."

"Hey, I'm trying to be an adult, here! It may never happen again!"

"Tell me about it. It's a whole new side of you that I have absolutely no idea what to do with." Bones takes his chef's jacket off and throws it on the chair, leaning forward to fold his muscular arms on the surface of Jim's desk. And as nice as that view is, Jim wishes he could see around to the other end of Bones and get a good look of that fantastic ass of his as it juts into the air, firm enough to balance a fruit bowl. Bones grins slowly to him, likely reading his thoughts. "In fact, Responsible Adult Jim is actually kind of sexy."

"Sexy?" Jim repeats, his brow lifting sky-high. He grins back wolfishly. "I mean, _I_ think so. It's nice of you to notice, of course."

"Mmhmm." Bones reaches up, running his thumb over Jim's bottom lip, making him go a bit slack-jawed. "All that responsibility just radiating off you, like crazy waves of pheromones. Catnip."

By the time Bones' thumb reaches the other corner of Jim's mouth, he's hard and straining in his trousers. It doesn't take much. "Please say we can fuck right here," he murmurs, tongue darting out to lick the roughened pad of Bones' digit. He lets out a low growl at that, which doesn't do much to alleviate the situation in Jim's pants.

"Anywhere you want, darlin'. The place is deserted except for us."

Jim thinks for a moment before he strikes gold. "Oh, my god. Spock's desk."

"Jim, _no_."

"Oh, come _on_ , Bones! Please?"

"What if he's got a video camera set up in there or something? I don't want that hobgoblin to see my...my _business_. Not to mention _your_ business!"

"Why would he have a camera? He doesn't care anyway; he's straight." Jim pouts and chews his lip, trying to think quickly. Bones reaches out and pulls his lip away from his teeth. "Pfft, hey. What about the kitchen?"

"Unsanitary," Bones says, folding his arms over his chest. "Storage rooms are one thing, but we prepare food in the kitchen. And it's not our kitchen, so..."

"Oh, fine, let's just do it right here," Jim grouses, reaching down to open up his pants. He hears Bones laughing and when he looks up again, he's already rounded the desk and shucked off his shirt, working on his fly. "Hi," Jim whispers, the sight of Bones undressing still enough to make his mouth go completely dry, after all these years.

"Hey, Jimmy." Bones kicks off his trousers and smiles, leaning against the desk. "How do you want this to go?"

"In the chair," he says, gesturing. "With you up..."

Bones just nods and drops to his knees, spreading Jim's thighs apart with his large hands. In a mere few moments, he's got one of those hands curled around the base of Jim's cock, his tongue laving and teasing the head, flicking over the slit, and Jim's voice is reduced to a series of little gasps as Bones pushes every button at exactly the right moment. He tilts his head back and groans loudly when Bones takes him in properly and starts to suck, Jim's fingers sliding into his hair, as soft as it was the night before. Bones is good at this, so damn good, and Jim finds himself absently stroking his hollowed cheeks as their muscles work to bring him closer and closer. He knows he's leaking already, so fucking turned on by the idea that Bones is going down on him _in his office_ , that it has to stop soon, or there won't be any actual fucking.

"Nuh—no, o-okay, that's enough, s'good," he murmurs. Bones leans back, licking his lips in a manner that should be illegal, and turns to rummage through Jim's desk drawers for the lube he knows is hiding in one of them. Okay, so they've done stuff in here before. But something about it still gets Jim going, every time. "Fuck, god, jesus," he moans as Bones works his slick fingers and palm over his shaft, getting him good and ready.

"And Allah and Buddha and maybe even a rabbi somewhere," Bones adds, smirking.

"Shit, _yes_. They're all invited." Jim keeps babbling, and he's saying something about the rabbi bringing bagels and lox when Bones says, "Shut up, Jim," and straddles his lap to sit on his cock and then talking just seems...secondary. Secondary to fucking, that is.

Because, christ, _Bones_. He's so fucking gorgeous, clean-shaven and slightly sweaty, muscles flexing all over as he works himself up and down on Jim's length. It's the look on his face, like he wants it so bad, needs Jim's cock like he needs oxygen or water or genuine Vermont maple syrup. Jim loves to just watch Bones' face during all kinds of sex, no matter if he's on top or bottoming or plastered to his office chair, rolling his hips as smoothly and quickly as he can to keep up with his partner. He angles his thrusts and Bones lets out a heavy groan, so loud that Jim is glad everyone's gone home because they'd sure as hell have something to talk about tomorrow if they heard. Bones clenches around Jim's length in return and it sets something primal off in him, his hips twitching in protest at the fact that they're practically pinned down.

"Wait, f-fuck," Jim stutters. He wraps his arms around Bones and just lifts them both off the chair, depositing him on his back on the desktop. Bones utters a small sound of shock, but Jim doesn't give him much time to reorient himself, grinning as he angles himself into the perfect position to pound into Bones' prostate over and over again, stroking mercilessly at his hard and aching cock. Then Bones is writhing and gasping brokenly in pleasure, arching up to meet Jim's thrusts without reserve, skin slick and hot and eyes foggy with lust, body splayed and completely debauched.

"Fuck, Jim, love you," he spits out, huffing for air as he grabs at Jim's shoulders, scratches wildly down his back. " _Love_ you..."

"Love you, Bones," Jim gasps, panting. And they're usually not this romantic, but fuck it; they're moving and starting the next phase of their life together, and all Jim wants to do is tell Bones how he feels, tell him all the time so he never forgets it.

He bends down to kiss him, their mouths smearing together messily, and when Jim loses himself and bucks, he breaks away with a gasp that Bones mirrors. Jim sucks a bruise into his shoulder, causing Bones to whine and nearly thrash beneath him; then he simply slides his thumb back and forth over the slit of his cock and that's it—Bones is a goner, moaning Jim's name as he spills heavily over his stomach, loud enough for the heavens to hear. Then it's just a matter of time for Jim; he shuts his eyes and thrusts erratically, the enraptured look on Bones' face painted over the insides of the eyelids. When Bones flexes around his cock and pulls him in even deeper, Jim completely loses it, coming so hard that it feels like his bones might crack apart.

Because of his Bones.

And it's true what his mom said; as long as Leonard H. McCoy is here, whether he's beneath Jim or beside him or on top of him like a big, warm blanket—as long as they're side by side, Jim can go anywhere and do anything. He can survive Starfleet Academy, speak up when others wrong him, manage a team of culinary geniuses, and win any number of awards. They're all just perks, as far as he's concerned.

Bones catches his breath and smiles up at him, like he knows something secret that Jim doesn't. He wonders if Bones sees the kid fighting with the Metrocard machine, the clumsy and annoying accidental tourist, or if he sees someone else—someone stronger and better, who's no longer afraid of change. All Jim sees when he lays his eyes on Bones is the same thing he's always seen; now he just has something to call it.

Home.

 

XVIII.

When the last pair of customers leaves the restaurant, Spock accompanies them to the large glass doors and then locks the exit securely behind them. He dims the lights by the entrance so that no one can mistake Enterprise for being open, now that the dinner service is over, and then nods to Pike as he makes his way over.

"Sir, the restaurant is officially closed for the evening and the entire staff has been asked to stay for the festivities."

"Great, Spock. Say, have you seen Jim around anywhere?"

"I assume he is busy with post-service prep. Failing that, he might be fooling around with Chef McCoy in one of the stock rooms."

"Probably the latter." Pike smirks and walks with Spock to the staff break room, loosening his tie. Spock's remains immaculate and tightly knotted against his throat, as always. "Were you able to get all the decorations we needed?"

"Indeed. Nyota, Gaila and Mr. Chekov procured balloons and streamers, and I saw to it personally that a specialty banner was ordered for the occasion."

When they walk into the room, Pike sees it: a sparkly silver and blue banner that reads CONGRATS in large letters. He decided that was the best catch-all sentiment, considering that this is a party to celebrate a whole multitude of happy events: Kirk's extraordinary Rising Chef Award; Spock and Uhura moving in together; Kirk and McCoy signing their new lease; Sulu's decision to pursue the Starfleet restaurant management program and, belatedly, Chekov's one-month anniversary as an Enterprise staff member. In any case, it's a chance to raise morale and give everyone a night to eat, drink and be merry.

Speaking of Sulu and Chekov, they're busy working on hanging the last of the streamers, Sulu perched high on a stepladder and laughing with Chekov, who stands below him, giggling, with confetti in his hair.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Pike! Mr. Spock!" Chekov says exuberantly. "Do you like the decorations?"

"Looks like you got a little decorated yourself," Pike points out, smirking. He motions to the spangles in Chekov's curls and Sulu laughs, shrugging sheepishly.

"We got a little carried away with the confetti," he explains.

"Indeed," Spock says, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys the now extremely sparkly floor of the break room. He lifts his foot and finds confetti sticking to the sole of his shoe. "I'll remain hopeful that someone will assist me in clean-up duties, once the party has come to its end."

"Keenser will help," Pike says, patting his shoulder.

"I will help, too, Mr. Spock," Chekov assures him, smiling broadly. "If I am needed."

Spock nods, his expression falling somewhere between quietly impressed and pleased with Chekov's eagerness to help. It puts an amused smile on Pike's face.

"Oh, my god! It looks so good!" Gaila exclaims, walking in with Uhura and Rand. "You guys did a great job with the confetti! I want some for my hair!"

"That can be arranged," Chekov says, walking over and sprinkling some silver, pink and blue flecks over her curls. Rand sighs and goes to the fridge to procure one of the many Diet Cokes sitting in there, waiting for her. She pops the tab and takes a swig.

"Anyone wanna go out for a cig real quick?" she asks.

Sulu nods to her and crosses the room, patting Chekov's shoulder along the way. "I'll join you," he says. Gaila frowns and places her hands on her hips, staring after them as they leave with a disapproving look.

"Pavel, you have to talk Hikaru into quitting smoking. You're the only one he'd listen to, I think."

"I would try but I find the smoking rather sexy," he laments, shrugging his shoulders. Spock gives him a curious look from where he stands, between Pike and Uhura.

"I find it illogical to attach sexual attraction to an activity that is medically proven as harmful to one's health, Mr. Chekov. Could you explain?"

Chekov goes a little red in the face as Pike snorts into his palm. Gaila, naturally, is completely in her element. "It's the oral part of it, Spock," she says, grinning. "You know, the constant..." She mimes the act, pretending to hold an invisible cigarette between two fingers, lifting them to her mouth. "See?"

Spock doesn't appear to see, but then Uhura leans up to whisper in his ear and a light flush appears on his pointed ears. He clears his throat and nods. "I...understand the attraction aspect now. Thank you."

"Welcome!" Gaila chirps.

Just then, Scotty strolls into the room with Chapel and Riley trailing behind him. "All right, you fine lads and lasses," he declares, removing his chef's hat. "Just point me toward the liquor and I'll be ready to start the evening properly."

"We can't start yet," Pike says, though he nods at Chekov to go turn on the music. "Jim and Len aren't here."

"Well, where are they?" Riley asks. Chapel scoffs beside him and folds her arms over her chest. She's probably the closest person to McCoy on staff besides Kirk. They make each other laugh and McCoy seems to appreciate her spunk and the fact that she's never afraid to sass Kirk when he deserves it.

"Where do you think they are?" she says, her voice laden in sarcasm. "Probably feeling each other up in one the back rooms."

"Those two just can't control themselves," Uhura sighs. "Hopefully they won't scar poor Cupcake for life this time."

"Why do you all call him Cupcake?" Chekov asks, wandering back from the iPod.

"Jim's nickname," Pike explains, shrugging. Then he furrows his brow. "Pavel, what is this music?"

"Ghostface Killah," he replies innocently. Gaila giggles but everyone else stares blankly at him. Chekov throws up his hands. "He is one of my favorites! You don't like it?"

"Whoa, you guys started the party without the Fresh Prince?"

Everyone turns and there's Kirk and McCoy, coming in from the back entrance. Kirk's carrying a large piece of audio equipment and he puts it down to lift his arms and shimmy his hips around to the beat. Uhura rolls her eyes and makes a beeline for the booze.

"Jim, you look like a damn fool," McCoy tells him, but there's a fondness to his voice, the same one that's always reserved for Kirk.

"I look awesome," Jim says dismissively. "Check it out, everyone—we rented this sweet karaoke machine!"

Scotty goes over to inspect the machine with Gaila and Chekov, who both seem quite excited by the prospect of doing karaoke. Spock, Uhura and Pike seem fairly disinterested, to no one's surprise. Chapel steps up beside McCoy and pats his shoulder, smirking.

"And here we all thought you two were off necking somewhere."

"Necking?" McCoy repeats, giving her a sly smirk. "Like teenagers at the drive-in?"

"Okay, fucking," she corrects herself, grinning. Kirk gapes at her.

"Hey, don't besmirch my honor, Christine! We thought it'd be fun, since Checkers isn't old enough to get into a real karaoke bar."

"That's true," Chekov says, looking sad as he peers up from his crouch on the floor, in front of the karaoke machine. "I can get in, but I cannot drink alcohol. They kick me and my friends out if we try to bring in drinks of our own."

"And that's just un- _American_." Jim shakes his head. "Your family didn't come to the land of milk and honey to be kept out of our country's finest karaoke establishments, after all."

McCoy laughs and kisses Kirk's temple. "I think the land of milk and honey is Israel, actually."

"Spock, is that true?" Kirk asks. Spock ignores him and drinks red wine, leaving him to shrug haplessly. "Oh, well, you know...streets paved with gold. Whatever."

"Hey, what's going on?" Sulu asks, walking back into the break room with Rand, an invisible cloud of cigarette smoke trailing behind them. "Oh, hey, Jim. Done making out in the supply room?"

"We were _not_ making out!" Jim exclaims, huffing. He gestures to the karaoke machine. "Look! We can do karaoke now! I bet you're probably awesome at it, Sulu, being Japanese and all."

"While I resent the slightly racist implications of your assumption," Sulu drawls, then smiles smugly, nodding, "I actually am. Totally awesome."

And because Kirk and Sulu can't resist challenging each other when they're not on shift, Kirk takes Sulu's declaration as an opportunity to step forward and point a finger at him. "Karaoke throwdown, Sulu. You in?"

Sulu arches a brow and puffs out his chest. "Pssh. You know it. You're going down, Kirk."

Behind them, Chekov sips from a glass of vodka and leans over to whisper to Gaila. "This is a side of Hikaru I've never seen."

"It's his stupid testosterone side," she whispers back. "Spend enough time with him and Jim and you'll see it more often." Chekov tilts his head in a way that suggests he'll consider it.

After a few drinks and the initial Kirk vs. Sulu competition, everyone else completely falls in love with the idea of the karaoke machine. Sulu impresses everyone with a soulful rendition of "Learn to Fly" by the Foo Fighters and Kirk tries to best him with "Born to Run" by Bruce Springsteen; Kirk has difficulty hiding his pouts when the majority of the room votes for Sulu as the winner of the face-off. He sits down next to McCoy and watches the others moodily, pulling from a beer as his _sous_ chef rubs soothing circles over his back.

When the others get a chance to perform, Gaila goes first, doing her best impersonation of a risqué mid-'80s Madonna as she sings "Like a Virgin," during which Scotty can't seem to take his eyes off her. Janice Rand goes next, regaling everyone with a rendition of "Womanizer," mic in one hand and a rum and Diet Coke in the other. Somehow, then, Uhura convinces Spock to do a duet of "Don't Go Breaking My Heart," during which the maitre d' attempts not to appear as awkward and robotic as he usually does; he fails spectacularly and Kirk nearly busts a gut laughing at the entire display, falling off his chair completely after his third beer.

Shaking his head at Kirk's antics, Sulu takes an opportunity to pull Chekov off to the side, whispering to him. "Hey."

"Hi," Chekov whispers back, grinning. He steals a kiss, assured that no one's looking when Spock is giving them such a show. "You were right; you were very good up there."

"Thanks." Sulu waves him off but he smiles brightly anyway, obviously pleased to have his boyfriend's admiration. "You know, I never really got a chance to say...well, for one, thank you...for convincing me to be proactive with my life." He shrugs and brushes his dark hair back. "Now that I know Pike's behind me one-hundred percent, I'm actually kind of excited about trying this whole management thing...seeing how it goes."

"Hikaru, you will be great," Chekov says, kissing him tenderly. Sulu makes a small sound that he's glad no one else can hear over the music. "What else did you want to tell me?"

"Just...congrats on surviving your first month." Sulu licks his lips and kisses him one more time. "I'm glad you came back for me."

"It was not my intention, but my hope," Chekov whispers, touching his chest.

Across the room, Chapel tears her gaze away from the start of Pike's performance of "Uptown Girl" to take a gander at Sulu and Chekov, fawning over each other like kids in a schoolyard. She lightly nudges Rand beside her, causing her to look up from her bag, in which she's digging for another cigarette.

"Look at those two," she murmurs. Rand looks in the direction Chapel points out, smirking when she sees Sulu playing with the buttons on Chekov's shirt. Chapel scoffs. "They've been going out...what? Three weeks? And they can't keep their mitts off each other."

"Young love," Rand mutters. She finds a cigarette and tucks it behind her ear. "It's enough to make you sick."

"Honestly." Chapel sighs and then smiles to her, flicking a blond strand of her hair back from her face. "I thought you did a great job with your song, by the way. You have a really nice voice."

"You think so? Thanks. I really only sing in the shower." Rand smiles shyly and then reaches into her bag, pulling out another cigarette, holding it out to Chapel, who doesn't smoke. "I was thinking of going outside. Wanna join me?"

"Sure," Chapel says, quirking a grin as she gets to her feet.

A few seats away, Kirk jolts upright and elbows McCoy's side.

"Goddamn it, Jim! You almost made me spill my drink..."

"Bones, look: Christine and Jan," Kirk whispers harshly in his ear, willing McCoy to turn and see for himself. " _Christine and Jan_."

McCoy blinks and tries to glance over at them inconspicuously. He catches sight of the two women as they leave the room, their hands lightly brushing together.

"Well, I'll be damned," he murmurs. "I had a feeling about those two." Kirk looks at him imploringly and whimpers.

"Oh, god. I'm cursed with the hottest kitchen staff ever." He squeaks when McCoy flicks his ear. "Ow! You're included!"

"Damn right I am."

Uhura watches Kirk from the makeshift bar as he leers after Chapel and Rand, shaking her head in displeasure. Spock approaches her as she pours herself another glass of white wine, sliding his fingertips over her back. Uhura turns to him and smiles softly, pressing against his side; she feels a relieved sense of freedom in knowing they can act like a couple now, without worrying what everyone else will think. Plus, they're not nearly as bad as Sulu and Chekov, who are practically climbing all over each other in the corner.

"Nyota, you seem distressed," Spock says. He reaches up and traces the path of her ponytail with a single fingertip, a gesture she finds oddly intimate. "Is everything satisfactory?"

"Quite. I was just watching Jim ogling Christine and Janice."

Spock nods, drinking his merlot. "He seems surprised by their flirtation. I, myself, have noticed their mutual attraction for quite some time, now."

Uhura gasps, giving him a look of mock offense. "And you didn't tell me?" Spock tilts his head and appears highly amused.

"I...did not feel it was wise to encourage speculation about the evolution of their relationship, when Chef Chapel and Ms. Rand themselves seemed unaware of the logical course of nature."

Uhura grins at that. "You think Christine and Janice make a logical pair?"

"They're both headstrong women," Spock says, "each with their vices. Their personalities seem to mesh well together."

"You've got a point there." Uhura leans up to kiss the corner of his mouth. "Thanks for singing with me, by the way. I know you didn't really want to."

"I was reticent at first, but I found the experience quite fascinating."

"You can't knock karaoke until you try it," she says, nodding sagely. Spock quirks the faintest of smiles and leans down to lick her lower lip gently.

"I'll remember this advice in similar situations, Nyota," he whispers. "It's most logical."

"Like all good things," she says. She nips at his mouth and he curls his hand at the small of her back.

"Generally speaking, yes."

The two turn to watch the assigned stage area of the room again when Chekov drags McCoy there to do the Run DMC and Aerosmith collaboration of "Walk This Way." McCoy grumbles and rolls his eyes so much that it seems they might fall right out of his skull, but then the music gets going and he and everyone else in the room are completely taken aback by the sound of Chekov rapping in that strong Russian accent—and rapping _well_. Sure, his pronunciation is a little different than what they're used to, but the looks on everyone's faces are enough to convey that the curly-haired _commis_ is very, very good. McCoy gets a little caught up in the moment and sings along with Steven Tyler's wail, begrudgingly at first, until he really gets into it, hip-thrusting and all. Kirk wolf whistles from his seat, leaning forward and resting his chin on his fists, obviously enjoying the show. Sulu sits beside him and watches Chekov, legs crossed lazily and head cocked, smiling like he's won the biggest prize in the room—one that's even better than the satisfaction of besting Kirk.

Another hour goes by and most of the staff is completely inebriated, resulting in heightened public displays of affection—even between Chapel and Rand, at whom Kirk keeps openly staring; he's distracted occasionally by McCoy poking his side or pulling him into rough kisses. No one even notices at first when Scotty shyly goes up to the karaoke machine and chooses a song, not until "Come on Eileen" starts to blare from the speaker and he launches into it. Then everyone perks up, especially Gaila. Scotty walks over and takes her hand when he gets to the chorus, pulling her out of her chair and spinning her around.

"Come on, Gaila! Oh, I swear..."

"Well, he means!" Sulu, Rand and Kirk drunkenly chime in.

"At this moment, you mean everything... With you in that dress, my thoughts, I confess, verge on dirty... Ah, come on, Gaila!"

Gaila's curls are down, as she turns and turns, as if she really is wearing a gorgeous, slinky cocktail dress instead of her plainclothes and chef's jacket. And when she laughs, it sounds like a thousand small diamonds spilling onto a floor made of glass. People start singing along with Scotty—Bones, with his arm around Jim, both of them raising their drinks in the air, Sulu and Chekov huddled together, and even Uhura, belting out the words as Spock looks down fondly at her. And when the song comes to an end, everyone claps and cheers for the vocalist and his lovely dancer, who he encourages to take a sweeping bow; she does, blowing a kiss as she adds a curtsy for good measure.

"Ah, Gaila," Scotty says when the applause dies down. He looks a little timid as he puts down the microphone and takes hold of her hand, stepping closer. His expression makes everyone in the break room quiet down until it's so silent that the quiet drip of a faucet can be heard, all the way from the kitchen. "I reckon this might not be the kind of thing you're looking for, but...I've been gone on you for ages, and I thought—maybe—a grand gesture, here with all of our friends, would be the best way to get your attention."

Scotty shoots a small smile at Sulu before he continues and Sulu goes still, suddenly all too aware of what's coming. He considers throwing himself at Scotty, envisioning himself charging at him in slow motion, but all he does is sit there, blinking rapidly as Chekov squeezes his thigh.

"Gaila," the pastry chef goes on, and when he bends to one knee in front of the _rotisseur_ , a few audible gasps echo through the break room. He reaches into his pocket and presents her with a box that holds a large, sparkling diamond. "It's not quite as bright as your eyes or your smile, but it'll do. I love you, Gaila. Will you marry me, lass?"

Gaila's red mouth falls into a quiet O as the entire room hangs on her very next utterance. Sulu exchanges a quick look of despair with Uhura and he shuts his eyes, running a hand over his face. This isn't what he meant, not at _all_ —okay, grand gesture, sure, but something like taking her to meet his parents or going out for an expensive dinner; maybe throwing in a pair of gold earrings for show. But now Gaila's going to break his heart in front of everyone because she's just not the marriage _type_ , and it's awful and a shame because Sulu really _likes_ Scotty and he doesn't want to see his face fall when Gaila tries to avoid any awkwardness and just brings down the hammer on him and says—

"YES!"

Sulu drops his glass right on the floor, spilling vodka and soda everywhere. Chekov laughs into his palm, his eyes wide. Gaila and Scotty, however, don't even notice; he lets out a large gust of breath in happy surprise and she bounces up and down excitedly as he slides the ring onto her finger. The cheers are thunderous when they embrace.

"Everyone give it up for Scotty and Gaila!" Kirk exclaims, jumping to his feet. Spock lurches forward, thrusting his near-empty glass of wine in the air.

"Mazel tov!" he yells, and the uncharacteristic shout has Kirk grinning like a beast.

Everyone gets up and crowds around the happy couple to congratulate them. Sulu just blinks, unable to believe what just happened. Eventually, he pulls himself up and musters the energy to shake Scotty's hand. The ecstatic Scotsman hugs him eagerly and whispers in his ear.

"Thanks for the advice, Mr. Sulu. You were exactly right!"

"I...I'm glad," he says, patting Scotty's back. "Congratulations. Wow."

When he finally gets to hug Gaila, she's all but squealing, kissing his face off. "Oh, my god, Karu! He finally asked me! Can you believe it?"

"Gaila, I..." He looks at her in wonder and laughs despite himself. "I thought you didn't want to get married."

"I didn't think I wanted to, either, but...I really do love Scotty. I guess I had that connection I was looking for all along." She smiles, and if Sulu didn't know any better, he would say she's blushing. Then she lifts a finger in warning, her eyes fierce and bright. "But this doesn't make me any less of an independent woman! Got it?"

Sulu grins crookedly and nods. If anything, he'd wager that getting engaged to Enterprise's animated, comically inclined pastry chef is the most independent thing that Gaila's ever done.

Once all the excitement dies down, Enterprise's couples all go their separate ways, nicely sloshed after the evening's host of festivities. Scotty and Gaila decide to go back to his place in Brooklyn and the Scot waves goodbye to everyone properly as Gaila admires the new bauble on her ring finger. Chapel and Rand quietly arrange for a first date and exchange a light kiss on the lips before they part ways. Uhura hugs everyone goodbye before wrapping an arm around an unusually intoxicated Spock and leading the way back to her apartment, now _their_ apartment. Sulu and Chekov leave the restaurant and walk together, hand in hand, toward the closest N stop on Broadway.

"Well, it's just us old men," Pike says, when it's just him, Riley, Kirk and McCoy left in the restaurant.

"Speak for yourself," Kirk protests. Riley just puts his coat on and sighs, grumbling to himself.

"I can't _believe_ Chapel and Rand are going out now," he grouses, shooting Kirk and Pike an annoyed look as he leaves. "Next time you hire someone new, make it a woman—a _straight_ woman. I've got needs, too."

Kirk giggles as he pulls on his own jacket, motioning to the karaoke machine. "Bones and I are gonna leave the karaoke thingy here overnight, if that's cool."

"Sure, that's fine." Pike pats each of them on the back. "I can't believe you two are moving. I remember the day you moved into that place in Inwood like it was yesterday."

"Good ol' Seaman and Cumming," Kirk says mournfully. Then he laughs. "Ha. Seaman and Cumming. It's _still_ good."

"No, Jim, it was never good." McCoy sighs and slings an arm around Kirk's shoulders. "Come on, darlin'. We gotta pack in the morning. Thanks for the shindig, Chris." He shakes Pike's hand and Kirk does the same, smiling.

"Yeah, thanks. It was a blast. We'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"As always, Jim. See you tomorrow."

Pike stands by the glass doors of Enterprise as he watches two of the most talented young chefs he knows walk out onto the sidewalk. They exchange a quick kiss before they hail a cab and drive off toward home. Pike smiles as he heads to his office and fetches his coat. He likes to think that somehow, he played a big part in tonight's events—culminating in all those happy, loving friends and couples working together under one roof, sharing in each other's lives. But really, all he ever did was get lost on a dark road in Iowa, put James Tiberius Kirk on a plane to New York City and let him crash for a while on his sofa. Getting him here was the hard part; after that, the rest all just fell into place.

The lights turned off and the ovens at rest, Pike says goodnight to Enterprise, his pride and joy, second home to all of them. He gives the old girl one last pat on her sturdy wall as he makes his way out, the doors locking behind him with a soft, satisfying click.


End file.
